


Bring On Christmastime

by bewildered



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Christmas fic, F/M, HIDDEN GEMS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-09-27 17:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17166119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewildered/pseuds/bewildered
Summary: Welcome, gentle readers! Have you ever wondered the true meaning of Christmas? I know I have. But never fear, I, Andrew Wells -- having been privileged to bear witness to a Christmas miracle, in this the year Anno Domini Two Thousand and Two -- shall now share with you the answer, a tale that will warm the cockles of your cold, cold heart and fill you to the brim with tingly, pepperminty Christmas spirit.Note: Implied chronology for s7 has Showtime taking place after Christmas, but I have bumped it up for Christmasy Reasons. See final end notes if you are pedantic like me and need a timeline breakdown.Written for the “Hidden Gems” board Holiday Event, as a gift for the incomparable myrabeth. Prompt will appear in final end notes.ETA: Thanks to Sigyn and zabjade for prereading this, since it was all SEEKRIT and stuff!





	1. Chapter 1

Welcome, Gentle Readers! Have you ever wondered the true meaning of Christmas? I know I have. But never fear, I, Andrew Wells -- having been privileged to bear witness to a Christmas miracle, in this the year Anno Domini Two Thousand and Two -- shall now share with you the answer, a tale that will warm the cockles of your cold, cold heart and fill you to the brim with tingly, pepperminty Christmas spirit.

...Well, all right, technically you are correct. That is, _technically_ , the true historical and religious meaning of Christmas. But pull up a chair at this cozy fireplace and harken now as I tell a tale of the _other_ true meaning of Christmas, one that will warm the cockles of your heart and fill you to the brim--

No, not that one, either. The _other_ other one.

By Santa’s beard! Have you no romance in your soul? The OTHER other other one!

Yes, that one.

Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Warm cockles and pepperminty tingles.

It all began on a cold Sunnydale evening. Unseasonably cold, as if the North Wind itself had come to call from the Arctic. Why, it must have been fifty degrees! Perhaps even as low as forty-nine. I do not mean to shock you, Dear Readers; I merely mean to impress upon you how very cold our ragtag bunch was when we returned to our secret base of operations that night.

What’s that you say? Not a secret?

Well, when we returned to our base of operations, known only to a select few, we were ashiver with more than the cold. We had borne witness to a modern-day clash of the titans -- admittedly they were small titans, petite, titanettes if you will, though I feel the Über Vamp would have had a few inches on our erstwhile Slayer, if his posture were better -- and we followed the victor, having pledged our eternal loyalty--

Please, Gentle Readers, do not laugh. I, too, have feelings.

So anyhow, smartypantses, we went back to Buffy’s house, which was minus a front door. When we arrived, Mr. Giles and the crazy lady, Anya, were waiting with crossbows, which I suppose was smart, since they probably didn’t know what had happened to the door.

“Dear Lord!” said Mr.Giles when he saw us. “Is everyone all right?” He has a really nice voice. Even when he says stuff that’s normal, it sounds super noble and stuff. I asked him the other day if he had any Jelly Babies -- which you would think was a completely normal request to make of a British guy -- and he told me to bugger off, which wasn’t very nice, but it still sounded classy. Like a coffee commercial, or a prep school headmaster.

“Is Xander all right?” Anya said.

“We’re fine,” said Buffy, all terse like the Punisher. Her hands were still clenched tight in fists, like she was dying to punch something.

“Buffy killed the Über Vamp,” I hastened to elaborate before the punching started. “It was badass.”

“Yeah,” Dawn interrupted, looking at me all mean, just because I said the news first. So immature! “You should have seen it. First she was all _I’m the thing monsters have nightmares about, welcome to Thunderdome, beeyotch!_ And then the Turok-Han was like _graar!_ and then she, like, beheaded it with barbed wire. And then it turns out it was all a secret plan she and Xander and Willow cooked up to show everyone, um, something.”

Buffy shrugged. “Just a demonstration.” She looked really tired.

Mr. Giles just raised his eyebrows. “Was the destruction of the door part of the plan?”

“Let’s just say it was not unexpected,” Xander said. “And speaking of which, I’ve got a couple sheets of plywood in the basement set aside for just this occasion. If you’ll all excuse me.” He headed off to... do carpenter things, I guess.

“So,” Buffy said, turning around to look at all of us. “Did any of you have any questions?”

Vi raised her hand. “How many more of those things are there?”

“I think that was the only one, for now.” Buffy sighed. “But I’m not going to count on it staying that way. There’ll be more. We have to be ready.” She closed her eyes for a moment, and I could see it, the heavy burden of great responsibility that naturally came with her great strength. “I think we’re good for tonight, though.”

Mr. Giles broke in when it looked like Kennedy was going to ask something else. “Under the circumstances, I feel it would be wisest to save further questions for tomorrow. You need your injuries treated, Buffy.”

She touched her cut cheek, like she’d forgotten all about it. “I’m not done, Giles. Spike--”

“--has waited several days already. He can wait another fifteen minutes.” Mr. Giles sounded grumpy. “That cut needs stitches.”

“There’s surgical tape in the box,” Buffy said shortly. “That’ll have to do. I can’t risk waiting for the First to summon up another of those things. For all we know, Spike is the secret ingredient.”

“Or he’s switched back to being evil,” Anya grumbled, glaring at the smashed door as if it were her arch-enemy.

“Ho-kay!” Willow said cheerfully, just like she was a nice co-ed instead of a vicious she-witch who could flay a man alive. “Who wants pizza? We’ve got Tombstone in the freezer.”

“Did we get veggie this time?” That was Molly. She had the wrong kind of British voice, the kind that sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. Maybe Mr. Giles could give her elocution lessons along with the slayer training?

“We have cheese. You can, um, put veggies on it.”

“Don’t be rude,” Kennedy said to Molly, which was, like, super ironic because she was always rude to everyone except Willow. But I guess since Molly was being rude to Willow that explains it. I wonder if Kennedy knows about the flaying-Warren thing? I know that tends to make me leery of talking back to the she-witch.

Anyhow, the Potentials all followed Willow into the kitchen, whispering to each other, and Buffy went and sat in the dining room for Mr. Giles to bandage up her cheek, taking off her jacket. I ended up kind of hanging out in the doorway between, a lone wolf, gazing moodily into the middle distance, kind of like Clint Eastwood, except with less facial hair and dirt. (I am _so_ glad they gave me shower privileges!) Also, it was the best place to hear everything that was going on.

Anya was on the other side of the room, by the foyer, still looking at the door all psycho-mean. It was like she was Joan Crawford wishing she had a wire coat hanger or something. But I guess it was better than her looking at me. Dawn had brought the first aid kit down from upstairs -- I don’t think I’d ever seen one that big! -- and she sat across the table to watch.

“So you slew it,” Mr. Giles said quietly as he swabbed her cheek with antiseptic.

“Yeah.” Buffy winced. “Turns out it has the same vulnerabilities as a regular vampyre. I just needed to turn the slaying up to eleven.” See, this is why she’s a better leader than Warren. Pop culture references _and_ shiny hair, plus she doesn’t make you kill people.

“Barbed wire, Dawn said?”

Buffy showed Mr. Giles her hands, which now I could see were kind of torn up, coated with blood and vampyre dust. “I was improvising. Later on maybe I’ll see if Xander can make me a garrote with handles.”

“You are truly amazing.” Mr. Giles took her hands and looked at them, frowning. “Shall we prepare garrotes for the girls as well?”

“No,” Buffy said, looking at her hands too. She had a weird look on her face, like she was remembering something kind of funny but didn’t feel like laughing. “They won’t be strong enough. It took all I had in me, and I think I may have pulled a muscle or two. Without slayer strength, they’d just be lining up for death.” She pulled her hands away, fisting them up again. “These can wait. Bandages will only get in the way if I have to fight more.”

Some hammering started up. Xander, I guess. It made it harder to hear what they were saying, they were too quiet, but Mr. Giles was looking all serious and Buffy was looking kind of stubborn, so I don’t think it was good things. When he put the last strip of surgical tape on, she stood up all sudden.

“I hear what you’re saying, Giles,” she said, louder. “But someone once told me that what keeps me going is my ties to the world. My family and my friends are what give me the strength to fight. I can’t…” She paused for a moment and looked at her hands again. “I can’t leave one of mine to suffer when I can save him.”

“Yours?” Mr. Giles said sharply, standing as well.

“Yes. Mine.” Buffy swept her arm dramatically. “You’re all mine. Dawn, you, Xander, Willow, the Potentials. Everyone in this house is mine to protect. And I am tired of failing to protect what is _mine_.” She laughed then, kind of bitter. “Besides, I already won this one. The Turtle-Khan thing is dead. Rescuing Spike is just the victory lap.”

I do not mind saying, Gentle Readers, that I was deeply moved, for though she had not mentioned me by name -- nor Anya, of course, but she was mean and didn’t deserve it -- was I not in the house as well? I, too, was technically included in the Slayer’s proclamation of protection.

Mr. Giles was apparently less moved. “And if there’s another Turok-Han waiting for you? Or an army of them?”

“Then I fight. But I am not waiting. I am going now. Besides, if the First had another one of those things on tap, it would be here by now.” She glanced in my direction, though I guess she was more looking past me, at the girls in the kitchen. “If I’m wrong, I guess one of them gets to take over. I know you’ll take good care of them.”

“Buffy, no slayer was called when you… when you fell defeating Glory. If you--” He took off his glasses, looking away. “If you do not return, we will have no way of knowing if you have been captured, or--”

“I’ll be back,” she said, lifting her chin. “Trust me.” And then she pushed past me into the kitchen.

“Hey, Buffy!” Willow’s voice was kind of forced-cheerful. “What kind of pizza did you want?”

“Save me a slice of the supreme,” Buffy said, just as cheerful. “Oh, and set aside a piece with anchovies for Spike. He’ll be home tonight.”

The back door closed.

And in the Summers residence, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Well, okay, Xander was still hammering away, because despite being a skilled and manly carpenter he has no instinct for drama, but the rest of us were silent after Buffy’s flawlessly executed mic drop. Which, as you know, is the point of a mic drop. Stunned silence.

She is _so_ much cooler than Warren!

After a bit, though, the silence started to get a bit uncomfortable. Thankfully Dawn was willing to fall on the post-mic-drop-speech sword.

“They don’t put anchovies on frozen pizza,” she snorted, and went into the kitchen herself.

I was going to follow, to make sure I got a slice of pepperoni before it was gone -- seriously, these girls eat like locusts! -- but then Anya came over to Mr. Giles, and I, um, froze. Which is a perfectly normal survival instinct.

“You didn’t tell her what we found out,” she grumbled.

“It didn’t seem an appropriate time," Mr. Giles said, sitting back down. “We can discuss it tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes,” she snipped. “The results of our highly dangerous, deeply humiliating quest aren’t important at all.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it this evening,” he said wearily, totally sounding like Gandalf at that part when he was all, _Frodo, I’m going to die if we go through Moria so I’m going to make you decide to go through Moria so you can feel guilty about it for the rest of your quest._ Except no, maybe he was Gandalf at the Council of Elrond? Whatever. He was Gandalfy. “I am not certain there is anything we can do at all. It’s not as if we can travel back in time and stop Wi-- Buffy’s resurrection.”

“We could un-resurrect her now. Maybe that would close the door the First is coming through.”

“Anya!” Mr. Giles was clearly horrified. I was mostly confused, but I figured if I asked them what they were talking about they’d just stop talking; as it was they seemed to have forgotten I was even there. Which, well, I was used to.

“I’m just saying. If this is all going on because she shouldn’t be alive--”

“I sincerely doubt that would solve the problem,” Mr. Giles said, standing up and looking all mad. “It is the act of resurrection that weakened the slayer line, not her continued existence. If she were to die now, the weakness would almost certainly remain.”

“Just thinking outside the box, here,” Anya sniffed. “I wasn’t saying we should do it. Just saying we could.”

“Well, we shan’t.” He gathered up the cotton balls and wrappers, crumpling them in his fist. “Of all of us, she bears the least blame. She had no choice in her own resurrection. You can’t seriously be suggesting we sacrifice her again to put our misdeeds right!”

“Whatever. Excuse me for wanting to survive this.” She stomped off into the foyer; the hammering stopped for a bit while her footsteps went on up the stairs, though Xander didn’t say anything. When her footsteps were gone, the hammering started up again.

Mr. Giles stood there for a long time, looking at the trash in his hand, before sighing and turning towards the kitchen. When he saw me there in the doorway, he kind of jumped.

“Good Lord! Er, Anthony, is it?”

“Andrew,” I corrected.

“Very good, very good,” he mumbled. “Andrew, perhaps you could provide me with some assistance?”

“Me?” I looked around, just in case, but I guess him using my name right after I told him my name made it unlikely he was talking to someone else. “Sure, I guess so.” I mean, Buffy just said I was hers, so I should live up to that, right? Besides, it was probably alphabetizing books or something. Mr. Giles was a classy guy, all Masterpiece Theatre. I was sure we’d end up sitting across from each other in cozy leather armchairs, drinking tea and discussing the latest episode of Red Dwarf.

Instead, he took me out to the back yard, and had me help him move the bodies.

The Bringers we’d killed when we were fleeing from the Über Vamp were scattered all over the yard. It was really creepy, the way they looked up at the sky, except not looking up at the sky because their eyes were all scarred up and gone. How did they see? I mean, okay, maybe they were like Daredevil and being evil minions of the First Evil (who really seriously needed some branding help) gave them, like, sonar powers, or ESP, but they had acted like they could just _see_ see.

I asked Mr. Giles while we were carrying the first body, but he didn’t answer right away, just directed me to put the body just outside the hedge, in the alley. I was so creeped out by the eyes that I had gone for the feet so Mr. Giles would take the head, but then it turned out that when we were carrying the body, it slumped down so the eyes were looking-not-looking right at me, which was creepier. You would think there was a not-creepy way to move bodies without them looking at you and stuff, right?

“I’m really not certain,” he said at last, sounding like he was annoyed both that I’d asked and that he didn’t know. “We don’t know if these Bringers, these Harbingers, are demonic in origin, or if they are humans that have somehow been corrupted. They certainly appear human, and have the same vulnerabilities. But I fear my research has turned up little of value in that regard.”

“Huh.” I followed him to the next body. “So, um, are we just going to leave these out in the alley? Because I think the homeowner’s association might not be too happy. And the note on the fridge says the next Brush and Bulky pickup isn’t until January twelfth.” I took the head this time, and okay, this wasn’t any better, because even with the eyes not looking at me I totally knew they were there. It made me think of Jonathan, too, knowing the eyes were there and dead even though I couldn’t see them. His eyes had been wide open, though, when I stabbed him, all surprised and scared, and I’d watched them go from alive to dead, which was way, way worse than these scarred-up not-eyes.

I wonder what happened to his body. Did somebody move it?

I miss him. I wish I hadn’t been forced to kill him. Stupid lame-named First Evil.

But enough about me. I was telling you all about what Mr. Giles said.

First of all, he said he had some resources, that when we’d got all the bodies out to the alley he’d place a few phone calls and have them “seen to.” So that was a relief. I didn’t want to have to walk past a pile of bodies when I brought out the recycling the next morning, in my new role as scullery boy. And then when we’d moved the third body, Mr. Giles turned to me, super nonchalant, and said, “I hear Spike’s been living here, under Buffy’s roof. A bit odd, don’t you think?”

So he’d brought me outside to grill me. “I guess so. I wasn’t really around then.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Giles sighed and led the way to the next Bringer. “Yet Buffy speaks as if he is, well, a part of the team.”

“Well, he might be. But when I got here, he was tied to a chair. I saw him when they were taking me to another room to, um, tie me to a chair.” Thinking about it, it occurred to me that they really have a thing about tying people to chairs, Buffy’s crew. What’s up with that?

Mr. Giles grunted as we lifted the corpse. “Was he, now? Interesting.”

“But then he, like, broke the chair and broke through the wall and then he bit me. That part I was there for.” I had to stop talking and breathe for a bit; this one was heavier than the other guys. “And then I guess they took him down to the basement. I heard Xander saying something about him being chained up, and stuff about triggers and brainwashing, and then, um, some of these guys came to kill me and they took Spike too.” We dropped the body on the pile. “Buffy saved me.”

“She does that.” Mr. Giles headed for the next body. “So, was there any evidence that you saw that, well, that Buffy’s judgment was impaired? That she was being, perhaps, too lenient with Spike?”

“Well, she did kick him in the face. Really hard, too.”

“Ah.” Mr. Giles smiled at that. “Very good.”

We finished moving the bodies in comradely silence. Or, well, not-enemy-like silence. Which was the closest thing I’d had to a comrade since I’d been forced to kill my best friend.

But I guess that’s why I’m a lone wolf.

*

We were inside eating pizza when Buffy got back with Spike. He was all bruised up and had these weird symbols carved into his chest, which we could see because he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He is, like, super fit. I couldn’t stop staring and wondering how he does it. Does he go to a Crossfit gym? Or is that something that comes with the vampyre package?

Everyone was still there, of course. Anya had come down after a bit, saying something about how people who did actual legwork should get first crack at the Meat Lovers pizza, and Xander had finished boarding up the door, and of course Dawn and all the Potentials were still around, because it wasn’t like they had anything better to do.  

“Thanks for waiting up, guys,” Buffy said when they staggered in the door, kind of sarcastic. “Willow, think you could pop a pint in the microwave? He’s been pretty well drained.”

Willow grabbed a container of blood out of the freezer -- one of the ones I’d paid for, it should be noted -- and started it going on half power. Buffy looked around at everyone in the kitchen and then helped Spike on through into the dining room. Everyone just kind of stared at him.

“Am I seeing double?” I heard him mutter as he passed through. “Or is Dawn having a slumber party?”

“Neither,” Buffy murmured back. “It’s a long story.”

After they’d left the kitchen, the girls started whispering among themselves.

“So that’s Spike?”

“He doesn’t look that tough.”

“He’s really a vampyre?”

“Why did Buffy save him?”

“Are you nuts? You saw those abs.”

On and on, like chattering magpies. I tried to enter the conversation myself, to tell them about my own intriguing encounters with the enigmatic vampyre known as William the Bloody, but they very rudely ignored me when I spoke.

Finally, Mr. Giles cleared his throat. “I am sure your many questions will be answered tomorrow. In the meantime, it is quite late, and I feel we are all much in need of rest.”

“So, he’s sleeping in the house, too?” Vi looked uncomfortable.

Mr. Giles made a face like he’d eaten a lemon. “Don’t worry, girls. I’m sure you’ll be quite safe.”

“Oh, yes. Very safe.” Kennedy rolled her eyes.

“Buffy knows what she’s doing,” Willow said, glancing nervously towards the dining room.

The microwave beeped, but nobody went to open it.

“Are you people all crazy?” said the new girl, Rona. “This is, like, the second time I’ve been almost killed in twenty-four hours, and now you’re telling me we’ve got a vampyre for a roommate? I’m going to bed.” She started to stomp off to the basement.

Buffy’s voice came from the dining room. “You girls need to take your stuff upstairs. I’m putting Spike in the basement.”

“And just where are we supposed to sleep, then?” Rona stopped at the door.

“Who’s been sleeping in the basement? Chloe and Rona? You guys can have my bed. I won’t be using it tonight.”

You have to hand it to Buffy. It’s quite an accomplishment, getting a roomful of teen girls dead silent, twice in one night.

It was, predictably, Anya who broke the silence this time. “So you’ll be sleeping with Spike.”

Buffy appeared in the doorway then, glaring. “I won’t be sleeping at all. I’ll be staying up _watching_ Spike while _he_ sleeps, because we still haven’t fixed the chains that got broken. We still don’t know what his trigger is, or how to defuse him.” She sighed. “I know you think I’m acting crazy, but I do know the score. The thing is, in this house, we don’t just write our… our friends off when they have problems. We try to help them work through it, even if it’s hard, or dangerous. Wouldn’t you agree, Willow? Xander? Giles? Anya?”

Anya rolled her eyes. “You stabbed me in the chest.”

Buffy rolled hers right back. “Yeah, when you were fighting me and telling me to bring it on. Have I stabbed you in the chest since you decided to take back the spider demon thing?”

Anya made a face. “No.”

“You all know that I’m not afraid of making the hard choices. If there’s a hard choice to be made here, I’ll do what has to be done. But until there’s no hope left, I’m going to keep trying.” She covered her face with her hand. “Now can everybody just go to bed? It’s been a hell of a night.”

“I was right,” Rona said. “You people are crazy.”

“Yeah,” Buffy laughed tiredly. “We kind of are. Check back in after a few more apocalypses and see how your mental health is.”

That garnered a few weak laughs, and the younger girls all dumped their glasses and plates in the sink and headed off upstairs. I was kind of jealous, to be honest. They sounded like they were going to go gossip and play slumber party games, and in the meantime, who got to do the dishes? It’s not fair that they were all guests and I had to be a hostage-slash-scullery-boy.

“Everyone else know where they’re sleeping? Everyone got blankets?” Buffy smiled weakly as her friends made various noises of agreement. “All right. I can take care of things from here. You guys all go get some sleep.” She came over and filled a bowl up with warm water from the tap, tucking a clean dish towel and the soap under her arm before she got the container of blood out of the microwave.

She left without another word.

The kitchen emptied out pretty quickly after that, though Mr. Giles stuck around, writing something in a little book and drinking some classy-looking booze, and I stayed to take care of the dishes, because I know from tragic experience that if you don’t get the cheese off the pizza cutter right away, it sets up like concrete. Especially Tombstone cheese, which I don’t think is really cheese.

Anyhow, it was a total coincidence that I was standing by the sink, at exactly the right angle to hear what was going on in the dining room. Pure serendipity.

It took me a minute to find the _exact_ exact angle to hear things, but eventually I got it right.

“They’re right, you know,” Spike was saying as I scrubbed at the cheese. “You should just kill me. Not like I don’t deserve it.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Spike.”

“I’m not safe.”

“You never were. But I’m not going to kill you.” There was a sound of water splashing.

“Don’t need to clean me up, love,” he said. “Not like I can get sepsis.”

There was a long silence broken only by the sound of more swishing water. “I know I don’t need to,” she said at last. “But I need to. I need to… acknowledge your wounds. Give each of them their due.”

He laughed then, brokenly, as if it hurt. “You’re daft, Buffy.”

“I don’t know what that means, but I’m taking it as a compliment. What do these symbols mean?”

“Haven’t the faintest. Bloody bitch had them carved in me while I was all strung up on a wheel, let it all leak out onto a ruddy manhole cover.” He coughed. “That’s what let the thing out.”

“That was your blood?” Buffy whispered.

“Bloody well drained me dry to do it.”

“Then why aren’t you drinking?”

“Didn’t want to--” He sighed, and I could hear him gulping as he drank. Let me tell you, I was in the acoustic sweet spot of the Summers residence.

“So blood on the Seal of Danzalthar let the Turbo-Mon out? I’ll have to tell Giles.” There was more splashing. “So, the First is a girl?”

“What?”

“You said _bloody bitch._ ”

There was another long pause. “It appeared to me as… as Drusilla. It took on Dru’s face and tried to get me to switch sides.”

More splashing.

“And sometimes it took on another face.” That sounded grudging, like he didn’t want to admit it.

“Whose face?” Buffy’s voice was gentle, like she was trying to calm down a wild horse.

“Yours.”

After another pause, Buffy laughed, short and sharp. “Of course. Giles said it can only appear in the guise of someone who’s passed away. I’ve died twice now. I’m surprised it doesn’t appear as two of me, like the Doublemint twins of evil.”

“I don’t think it’s the first time. There are times…” He heaved a huge sigh that turned into a cough. “I think it’s been pretending to be you for a while now. Since I came back to Sunnydale. There are things I remember that only make sense if it wasn’t truly you.”

“Well, that’s comforting.” There was another splash. “Here, let me check your ribs. You’re all bruised up.”

Spike hissed in pain. “There’s one.” It sounded like he was growling, way in the back of his throat. “What day is it? Couldn’t bloody tell day from night, so far underground.” He hissed again.

“The twenty-third. No, probably the twenty-fourth now. It’s way past midnight.” Buffy clicked her tongue. “Do you have any ribs that aren’t cracked?”

“Not likely. Bloody Caligula kicked the fuck out of me.”

“Yeah, he sure packed a wallop.”

“But you took him down.” That was admiring, I could hear the glow in his voice.

“Yeah. You would have loved the show. We even had lights.”

“What did the trick?”

“Got me hands on some barbed wire. Turned Caligula into Caliguless. Um, Caligu-headless.” She chuckled. “That sounded funny in my head.”

“It sounded brilliant to me.”

“Here, I’m going to wrap you up. Stop breathing.”

“All right.”

“That means stop talking, bozo.”

He stopped talking.

I finished doing the dishes that needed scrubbing and took advantage of the enforced silence to start loading the cups and plates into the dishwasher. There were a lot of cups, though, so I almost missed the best part. Thankfully, I was back in that sweet acoustic spot, drying off a pizza pan, just in time.

“I knew you’d come for me,” Spike whispered.

“I always knew you were smart,” Buffy whispered back. “Now shut up.”

I kept drying the pan, listening really hard for the smooching sounds that obviously needed to be happening right then, but I didn’t hear anything at all kiss-like, and I was still listening when Buffy showed up in the doorway, supporting Spike.

“Giles?”

The watcher lifted his head, as if he hadn’t even noticed she was there. “Yes, Buffy?”

“You’ll come spell me when you’ve gotten some sleep? I’ll need a nap when my bed is free.”

“Of course, Buffy. And if you need me sooner, you know where to find me.”

She nodded, and helped Spike limp to the basement door. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Giles. I want to hear how your Biloxi thing went, and Spike has some information to share too.” She turned with a wry smile. “But I really don’t have the brains left to deal with anything else tonight.”

“Buffy, your hands--”

She lifted them up, showing they were wrapped in gauze. “Spike helped me wrap them after I was done with his stuff. We’re good. They’ll be all healed by tomorrow.”

“All right, then.” Mr. Giles went back to writing in his book.

Buffy and Spike disappeared behind the basement door, closing it firmly behind them.

I finished drying the pizza pans and put them away, wondering where I was going to sleep, but when I peeked out into the living room, I could see that Xander had settled in the recliner under a crocheted afghan, and someone had made up Mr. Giles’s bed on the couch… and there was a sleeping bag sitting in the middle of the carpet, along with a throw pillow. It had Care Bears on it, so it was probably Dawn’s from when she was a kid, but it was still way better than sleeping in a chair. Xander’s probably the one who did it; blue-collar workers really are the salt of the Earth, you know?

I was about to go unroll it on the carpet when Mr. Giles spoke to me again.

“You said she kicked him in the face?”

“Um, yes. She totally did.”

“Very good. Go get some rest. I’m sure we’ll have more questions for you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Thank you, sir.” I shuffled my feet, feeling kind of awkward. “Good night.”

He didn’t answer. He was too busy writing.

But that was okay. As I snuggled into the sleeping bag -- which was too short and smelled musty, like it had been in the basement for years -- I actually felt kind of like I belonged. I hadn’t felt that way since I… since Warren….

Actually, I’d never really felt that way. Not ever.

And of course, at the time I had no idea I was about to witness the magic of Christmas, unfolding before my eyes, that I was destined to have the cockles of my heart warmed and my soul filled with tingly, pepperminty Christmas spirit. By a slayer and her pet vampyre, no less! I was completely without clue as to what the future held. I am sure you understand, Gentle Readers, that the thought of Christmas was indeed the furthest thing from my mind as I drifted off to sleep, thankful simply to be alive and not tied to a chair.

It was a mere coincidence that the last words that came to my mind as I faded away were the words of Tiny Tim as he cast away his crutch and limped into the light. I fell asleep with those serendipitous words on my lips.

“God bless us, every one.”

 

END CHAPTER 1


	2. Chapter 2

It felt like I had just settled down for a long winter’s nap when out in the kitchen there rose such a clatter that I--

Gentle Readers, please do not be alarmed. My tale shall not descend to the depths of anapestic tetrameter, as you clearly fear from your complaints. I merely wished to subtly bring your attention to the fact that it was, indeed, the morning before the night before Christmas, in case you had forgotten the whole point of my tale since last we spoke. May I continue?

\--I huddled down in my sleeping bag wishing the girls would all quiet down. You know, in my younger days I once dreamed of living in a home where I was the only boy amid a bevy of girls with supernatural powers, like Tenchi Sasaki or Keiichi Morisato, but as it turned out, Cartoon Network’s Toonami was nothing but a web of lies. As I have learned to my chagrin, the real thing is a lot louder with far fewer communal baths than I had been led to expect, and I don’t think any of them have fallen in love with me, much less all of them. Plus, I am not sure I want any of them to fall in love with me. I mean, would you want to go out with someone who would have a loud argument about cornflakes just feet away from where someone else was clearly still trying to sleep?

In any case, my valiant efforts to remain in dreamland were shattered by the thundering of a herd of elephants on the stairs, also known as Dawn making her appearance. She didn’t go into the kitchen, though; she just stomped right into the living room, not caring that all the men were still asleep.

“Xander?” she stage-whispered. “Xander, are you awake?”

He mumbled something incoherent.

“Xander, when you’re awake I need to talk to you.”

“So kind of you to let us all know,” Mr. Giles said grouchily from the couch. 

“Oops! Sorry, Giles!” She didn’t sound sorry at all. 

“Not to worry,” he sighed, sitting up and reaching for his glasses. “Sleep is a luxury I have learned to live without. Tell me, have Rona and Chloe emerged from Buffy’s room?”

Dawn thumped past me to peer in the kitchen. “Yeah, they’re up. There’s coffee, too, unless you want tea.”

“Very good. Coffee, I think. Would you be so kind as to tell Buffy I’ll be down shortly?” 

Dawn shrugged and headed down the basement stairs -- from the look of her you’d think it would sound like delicate prancing hoofs, but nope. Elephants. Nearly under my head, too, and so I gave up on the arms of Morpheus and wriggled out of my sleeping bag.

Mr. Giles definitely looked like he needed coffee; he had the thousand-yard stare of a man who had seen too much, specifically too much teenage girl shenanigans. But he didn’t head into the kitchen right away; instead he walked around me and dug into Buffy’s weapons chest. When he turned back towards me, he had a crossbow in his hands.

The stare and the crossbow together were kind of terrifying. “G-good morning, Mr. Giles,” I stammered.

He ignored me and went into the kitchen.

I am, of course, well accustomed to being ignored, like the mild-mannered-yet-witty Peter Parker, except of course I have not yet been granted super powers. (I remain ever hopeful, Gentle Readers.)  Also, I do not mind saying that I would much rather be ignored by the scary old guy with the crossbow than  _ noticed _ by the scary old guy with the crossbow. So I took my time about rolling up my sleeping bag, using my tragically-still-not-enhanced hearing to figure out when it might be safe to go fix some muffins. I like muffins. Especially blueberry muffins with a crusting of coarse sugar -- you know the ones I mean. Though I suppose Buffy is unlikely to have stocked up on fresh blueberries, what with the Über Vamp and the feeding a dozen mouths on a part-time high school counselor’s salary. But I think we have some bananas that have gone black.

Anyhow, finally I heard Mr. Giles go down the stairs -- quieter than Dawn, of course, because he is a gentleman and a scholar -- and then I heard him and Buffy talking, really loud but not loud enough for me to hear what they were saying, which was a little unfair. But I was just tucking my sleeping bag and pillow away in the corner when I heard footsteps on the stairs again.

This time it was Buffy; she didn’t even say anything to the girls in the kitchen, just rushed into the living room, her face kind of white. She had Mr. Giles’s crossbow in her hands, and she didn’t talk to me either, just stomped over to the weapons chest and started rummaging. After a bit she muttered something like “Eureka!” -- it wasn’t “Eureka!” of course, it was something a lot less cool that meant the same thing, but if I had been her I would totally have said “Eureka!” under the same circumstances -- and pulled out a big wooden club thing.

And then she turned in my direction, her eyes finding me out like laser beams. So I guess she hadn’t overlooked me after all.

“You.” She glared at me like she didn’t like me, though of course I knew better, because of what she’d said the night before. “Take this downstairs to Giles, and remind him that if I have to vacuum my  _ ally  _ off the basement floor, I will--” Her eyes went blank then, blank and kind of scared, and it made me scared, too, that she didn’t know what she was going to do.

When she didn’t finish her sentence, I suggested, “Make him regret he was ever born?”

“That’ll do.” She shoved the club into my hands. “I’ll be upstairs sleeping. Wake me up if the world ends. Or if Giles needs me. Or Dawn. Or…” She covered her face with her hand for a second. “Use your best judgment. No, wait. Don’t use  _ your  _ best judgment. Ask Giles if you should wake me up.”

She walked away and up the stairs, her tread heavy with the weight of responsibility and the pain of her wounds. Despite this immense weight, she managed  _ not _ to sound like a herd of elephants. I was quite impressed.

When I went down the stairs, Mr. Giles was sitting in a metal folding chair, right by the punching bag, writing in his book. Spike was lying asleep on a cot up against the wall. He had ropes wrapped tight around his wrists and ankles, all tied to some metal rings in the walls, and I wondered briefly at this new development in the humane treatment of prisoners who would normally be tied to chairs, but then I remembered that Spike had broken his chair, so maybe that was why they’d backed off on the chair thing, because they were afraid I would suddenly awaken to my latent mutant powers and bust out like the Incredible Hulk, too. Then I realized if they were afraid of me at all they would have me tied up too. 

I was never so glad not to have super powers in my life. Ropes are itchy.

Giles looked up as I came down the stairs, looking inscrutable. “Ah. Thank you, Andrew. I was feeling quite defenseless.” He sounded sarcastic, but I couldn’t tell if it was because he actually felt really safe, or because he actually did feel defenseless and didn’t think a club was going to do the job.

“Buffy said--”

“Yes, I’ve received my marching orders. Thank you.” He took the club and set it by his chair, then went back to writing. He sure writes a lot in that little notebook. Maybe he’s working on his novel? It’s a little late for NaNoWriMo, but he might not even know about that. He doesn’t look like he reads a lot of blogs. And I guess people wrote novels before there was a special month and a website. 

“Did you, um, need anything else? More coffee, or… I was going to bake muffins.”

“No, I’m quite all right for the moment. Buffy’s resting?”

“Uh, yes. Sir.”

“Very good.” He turned a page in his notebook and kept writing. It must have been a really exciting novel he was working on!

So I went upstairs, and there weren’t any blueberries, like I expected, so I made banana-nut muffins instead. They were just cool enough to eat when Xander stumbled into the kitchen and took the biggest one. How was that fair? Anyhow, Dawn was still in the kitchen eating, and she jumped up and ran over to him.

“Xander, I need to talk to you.”

“So talk.” He shoved half the muffin in his mouth and looked around. “No, don’t talk. Coffee first. Then talk.”

Dawn folded her arms and waited impatiently,  The slayer girls had headed out to the back yard to do calisthenics or karate or something -- I could hear Kennedy yelling at them -- and I hadn’t seen Anya yet this morning, so it was just the three of us hanging out; I sat down at the island to eat a muffin, which was a bad move, I guess, because Dawn noticed me.

“Why are you here?” she asked snottily.

“I’m your hostage,” I said. “I’m supposed to stay here.”

“You can stay in a different room here.”

“Yeah, but… I made muffins?”

She looked at me all mean, but she grabbed a muffin to eat and stopped picking on me. You know, people laughed at me when I took Home Ec my junior year, but I have gotten a lot of benefits out of being able to bake. Everybody likes muffins. There’s even, like, a song about the Muffin Man. I only know the part the butterfly sang in _ The Last Unicorn _ , though.

“All right,” Xander said when he’d finished about half his cup of coffee. “I may be able to grok words now. Talk away.”

Dawn bounced a little on her stool. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

“So it is,” Xander agreed. “That is why I am here, having coffee, instead of on a construction site trying to single-handedly hold back the tidal wave of sinking property values in Sunnydale by building yet another box-shaped retail establishment.”

I wanted to point out how “sinking” and “tidal wave” were not compatible images in a metaphor, but Dawn just kept on talking. 

“We need to do something for Christmas.”

Xander took another drink of coffee. “Define ‘something.’”

“I don’t know. Like presents and a tree and stuff. Bake cookies. Sing Christmas carols.”

“Replace the carols with ‘watch  _ Die Hard _ ’ and I’m there.” He looked at his coffee cup thoughtfully. “From what Buffy said, songs are a risky proposition right now.”

“So we can?”

“Did you ask Buffy?”

Dawn stuck her lower lip out. “No. She was downstairs guarding Spike all night, and then she went right up to bed. She didn’t even say hi.”

“Well, to be fair, she did have kind of a rough night last night. Epic-level rough. She’s earned some shut-eye.”

“Right. So we’re the ones who have to make Christmas happen.”

“I don’t know, Dawnmeister.” Xander sighed. “I mean, here we are, under siege by the actual origin of all evil, trying to protect a flock of teenage girls from wackadoos that have been hunting them all over the globe, in a house that has more boards than windows right now. Is this really the time for holiday hijinks?”

“What are you talking about? Of course it is! We need Christmas more than ever right now.”

“All right. Let’s say we do make Christmas, in a not-animated-by-Tim-Burton way. How are we going to pull this off? First off, it’s a bit late to get a tree; the lots are picked over. And I hate to break it to you, but I know from sad personal experience that the crappy little leftover trees do not actually grow into lush nine-foot noble firs just because you wrap a security blanket around them and give them love.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “Yes, you explained to me when I was twelve that  _ A Charlie Brown Christmas _ was nothing but lies and propaganda. Then you did the Snoopy dance again.”

“Know your strengths.”

“Anyhow, we have a fake tree in the basement. Mom got it when we moved out here, because she didn’t have time to deal with a real tree when the house was full of boxes. We have lots of ornaments, too.”

“Fair enough. What about presents? These days the household budget is stretched thinner than silk stockings over a bank robber’s forehead.”

“Okay, that was an image I did not need. But I already know that too. The dollar store has lots of crap for just a dollar. And I have some of my allowance saved up -- I was going to ask Buffy if I could get a puppy, but I am pretty sure that’s going to be a no-go this year.”

“Good bet.” 

“So I figure we can get about three pieces of crap for each person staying here. Maybe two for some.” She looked at me when she said that.

“Okay then.  _ Die Hard _ , I got covered.”

“I can bake cookies,” I volunteered. “I know how to make snickerdoodles, jam thumbprints, um, peanut butter blossoms. I can even make biscotti. You know, the word biscotti means ‘twice-baked’ so it could technically refer to a lot of things, like potatoes….”

“Can you make coconut macaroons?” Xander seemed interested in my skills. You know, I thought his eyes were brown but up close they’re a really nice hazel. “Willow likes those. She says eating them at Christmastime is culturally subversive.”

“Yeah, I can make those.”

Dawn grumbled something about how they’d probably be evil macaroons, but I took the high road and pretended I didn’t hear her. She was already on her second muffin, so she really had no moral high ground, you know?

Xander drank down the rest of his coffee in one gulp. “Tell you what, Dawninator. You and the Evil Gourmet here drag the tree and the trimmings out of storage while I shower and make myself presentable, and then we can rally the troops to decorate. We’ll make Christmas.” He snagged a paper napkin for his hands. “Maybe later we can put on a show in the barn, too.”

“We don’t have a barn.” Dawn rolled her uncultured eyes.

Xander patted her on the shoulder, clearly pitying her for her lack of knowledge of the Garland-Rooney oeuvre. “Never mind, Dawnie. Go get the tree.”

“Okay!” She was in a good mood, now that she was getting what she wanted. “Come on, I know right where it is.” She galumphed on down the basement stairs, not checking to make sure I was following.

I did follow, though. I like Christmas, too, and while I was on the lam in  _ Mehico  _ my family apparently moved out of town without even leaving me a note, so Dawn’s idea was the only option I had to celebrate the season. I don’t know what my family was thinking. I mean, sure, we had that big fight when they wanted me to clean my room and I very reasonably informed them that supervillains did not engage in menial labor, but was that any reason to move away? I sent them a very fine postcard from Tijuana explaining what had happened, too. It had a classy lady in a serape on it. Who doesn’t like a serape?

So Mr. Giles was still down there, of course. He had stopped writing in his notebook, though -- writer’s block? -- and was just standing by his chair watching Spike, his face all thoughtful. It didn’t seem to me like Spike needed quite so much watching, seeing as he was still zonked out, but maybe Mr. Giles was also wondering where Spike went to work out. I know I would very much like to have the name of his personal trainer, as I have been thinking now that I am on the side of good I should try to look good in spandex. Spike was sleeping on his stomach, and even all relaxed I could see he had really developed back muscles under all the bruises.  I hoped his training regimen wasn’t too sweaty, though. Sweat is just as itchy as ropes. 

Mr. Giles gave Dawn a strict-teacher kind of look when she made it down the stairs. “I know Buffy told you not to come down here. It’s not safe.”

“Actually, she didn’t, because she hasn’t talked to me today,” Dawn sniffed. “But Spike’s all tied up and asleep. And we just need to get the Christmas stuff. It’ll only take a second.”

“Ah, yes. Decorating the rubble.” Mr. Giles smiled faintly. “Do you need any assistance?”

“No, I’ve got Evil Andrew to carry the heavy stuff.”

“Yes, I’m certain that will do the trick,” Mr. Giles said, all dry and austere. He sat back down and resumed watching Spike. I guess that’s why he’s a Watcher.

So Dawn made me get the big tree box off the shelf -- I was expecting it to be all musty, like when I got stuff out of my mom and dad’s basement, but it actually smelled kind of nice. When I asked if they’d used Febreze or something, Dawn said something about a flood and Willow casting a spell to clean it up because Tara was allergic to mildew. You know, I wonder why she never tried to start up, like, a paid service for that sort of thing, because I remember when I was in middle school and stupid Tucker did something stupid that made the pipes break, we didn’t get to have McDonalds for, like, two months because the cleanup cost so much, plus I lost some very valuable comic books to water damage. Well, maybe not very valuable -- the nineties market was flooded -- but bound to appreciate in value some day, right? Anyhow, if we’d been able to hire a magickal cleanup crew, I bet it would have been a lot cheaper, and I might still have all those  _ Age of Apocalypse _ comics. Not to mention Willow would have been providing a valuable service to society instead of going about all willy-nilly flaying people alive and throwing fireballs and stuff.

Once we had the tree box and all the plastic bins of ornaments and lights down off the shelves and in the middle of the floor, it was actually a lot of stuff. Fortunately, Dawn seemed to be thinking the same thing I was.

“Maybe we should have Xander carry this stuff upstairs.”

“Or some of the Potentials,” I wisely suggested. It’s not like they had anything actually important to do. I don’t think they have any chores at all, they just eat and train and talk, while other people in the household do all the work.

Mr. Giles made a vague noise of agreement. Or maybe it was disagreement; it’s hard to tell with his accent.

Dawn was looking at Spike funny, her face kind of twisted up. “Why’s Spike so beat up? I thought the First couldn’t touch things.”

“I presume from the nature of the injuries that he was tortured,” Mr. Giles sighed. “The First Evil may be incorporeal, but it had the Turok-Han and its Harbingers to do its bidding.”

“Was it torturing him for information?”

“I really couldn’t say. It seems unlikely, though; the First has already demonstrated it can enter this house at will, and that it has in-depth knowledge of our actions even when it has not manifested visibly.”

Dawn just kept looking at Spike. “Did he look like this when Glory tortured him?”

Mr. Giles glanced at her, inscrutable again. “Not precisely. Glory’s torture was for a briefer duration, but I believe was more, er, intense.”

“I don’t get it.” Dawn folded her arms. “I mean, I used to really like Spike, even though I knew he was evil. He was always cool, you know? And he got all tortured for me, and didn’t give me up to Glory, so that was good, right? And then he took care of me that whole summer, and patrolled with you guys. He was my best friend. But then after Buffy came back, things changed again, and he wasn’t around as much, and then he and Buffy had that secret, um, thing, and then Anya, and then-- well, Xander said he, um, did something bad to Buffy, something really bad, and so I guess he was evil all along? And he left without saying goodbye, too. And so then I really hated him. But now, like, he has his soul, and so we’re supposed to, I don’t know, pretend none of that happened? And you’d think Buffy would hate him the most, but she’s acting like he’s her boyfriend again, except not, and he’s getting tortured again for us, and he’s back on the team, and I’m just really confused.”

“Welcome to adulthood,” Mr. Giles said, but he was also looking at Spike now, frowning. “Dawn, how do we know he has his soul? Was he cursed? Buffy has not been very forthcoming about the details.”

“Oh. Um, she hasn’t talked to me about it much either, but I was kind of listening in when Buffy talked to Willow, and I guess he went and got it on purpose, did some sort of trials with fire and bugs and stuff. In Africa.”

“Interesting. And has anything been done to confirm the soul’s presence? Or are we taking him at his word?”

“Oh, yeah. Anya could see it, when she was still a vengeance demon. I guess she’s not anymore? Anyhow, Anya’s all grouchy about Spike not getting stabbed in the chest, she mentions it like twelve times a day, so she wouldn’t lie for him.” Dawn shrugged. “Plus he was all Fisher-King-nutso for a while. Except he’s not as funny as Robin Williams.”

“Ah.”

“But I really don’t get it. I mean, he’s still the same guy, isn’t he? He acts mostly the same, and he’s still in lo-- obsessed with Buffy. And he had the chip before, too. So what’s the difference with him having a soul?”

Mr. Giles was silent for a long time, looking at Spike, which you would think would be boring but  somehow just looked cool, like there was a steadicam doing a slow zoom in until the screen was filled with just his thoughtful face. Maybe with some epic orchestrals in the background. He just has so much presence, you know? When he finally spoke, he was very quiet, like he was talking to himself. “When Angel lost his soul and reverted to Angelus, it was very easy to tell the difference. In Spike’s case… well, as you mentioned, he was doing good works without his soul, out of devotion to Buffy.”

“Xander said that didn’t count, because he was just trying to get Buffy to, um, notice him.” Dawn frowned again. “But that doesn’t explain why he helped us out that summer. He didn’t know Buffy was going to come back. Nobody even told him they were trying.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Giles sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you, Dawn. We don’t really know as much about the soul as we would like, despite centuries of research.  To my knowledge, Angel was the first vampyre to ever have his soul returned to him; certainly he is the first whose experiences have been recorded. The very idea of a vampyre  _ choosing _ to regain his soul, to the point of traveling across the world and engaging in painful and difficult trials, is-- well, it’s frankly unthinkable.”

“Spike thought of it.”

“So he did.” Mr. Giles picked up his notebook and pen. 

“So can we trust him?”

Mr. Giles didn’t answer, just started writing his novel again. I understood completely; as author of a dozen reasonably-well-received Star Trek Enterprise fics, which I swear will be completed someday, I know quite well that when the muse is speaking to you, there is no time to waste.

Dawn was, of course, blind to such courtesies. “Giles? Can we trust Spike?”

“As much as we ever could,” he said with a sigh. “With appropriate precautions.”

Dawn rolled her eyes at that and picked up the smallest of the Christmas bins. “Come on.”

I chose another bin -- not the next smallest, but one that wasn’t too heavy, as I had not yet started that personal training regimen of which I spoke earlier. By the time we got upstairs, Xander was there eating another muffin. He’d even shaved and broken out the Old Spice. I’m a Brut man myself; you have to appreciate the classics.

Well,  _ no _ , Picky Readers, I can’t afford Brut. I use the stuff from the bottom shelf, or the dollar store. But I’d be a Brut man if I could afford Brut. May I continue?

“Xander, can you help with the tree?” Dawn said, kinda whiny but to be fair, that tree box was pretty big.

“But of course, mademoiselle.” Xander brushed crumbs off his face. 

“Perhaps this is the time to muster the troops?” I suggested. “I mean, the girls won’t want to miss any of the fun. And we can start unpacking these.”

Xander shrugged, clearly seeing the wisdom of my plan, and headed out the back door while Dawn and I took our boxes out to the living room; within minutes the room was filled again with Potentials, eagerly digging into the boxes and sorting ornaments and decorations.

We had just gotten the tree assembled and fluffed out and started putting on the lights when we were startled by a voice from behind us.

“What is going on here?”

It was Buffy, standing in the foyer, looking at us like she was an alien who’d never seen people decorating a tree before. She was in different clothes -- a really flattering red jacket over a cami, from Kohls, I think? -- but she still looked just as tired as she’d been before she’d gone upstairs to sleep.

Dawn bounced over to her. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Yeah. And?”

“And so we’re decorating. See, we put the tree just where Mom always did, so it looks good from outside the window.”

Buffy folded her arms. “We don’t have a window. We have plywood.”

“Yeah, but… there really isn’t anyplace else to put it.”

“But why are we putting it? Up. Why are we putting the tree up?”

Dawn turned on her begging voice. “Please can we decorate for Christmas? Pretty please? We have all the stuff. And we’re going to go buy some presents, um, little ones, and we’re going to bake cookies….”

“And look!” I held up the plastic treasure I had found at the bottom of one of the boxes. “Mistletoe!”

Dawn made her eyes really big and clasped her hands together dramatically. “Please?”

Buffy tapped her foot, but she was obviously a big sucker for Dawn’s fake Bambi eyes, because a few seconds later she sighed in defeat. “Fine. Trim the tree, bake the cookies. Xander’s here, so I know  _ Die Hard _ is on the menu.”

“Can we get Chinese?” Dawn wheedled.

“That is the Christmas Eve tradition, as of last year,” Buffy said, almost smiling. “I guess we can order take-out later. We’ll have a merry Christmas.” That sounded like she was trying to be full of good cheer, but it came out just exhausted.

I waggled the mistletoe. “Where should I hang this? Maybe in the foyer?”

Buffy glared at me. “No. No mistletoe.”

“But mistletoe is, like, the wellspring of all wacky Christmas hijinks!” I was deeply disappointed, I don’t mind telling you. I had never kissed anyone under the mistletoe, of course, and I didn’t really want to kiss any of the girls in the house, but I know my tropes. Mistletoe is practically mandatory!

“We do not need wacky hijinks. We need peace. I am not hanging mistletoe in a house full of teenagers-and-the-even-less-mature.” She held her hand out. “Fork it over.”

I reluctantly surrendered the mistletoe to her; she stuffed it in her jacket pocket and turned to Xander.

“Everything else good?”

“Hunky with a side of dory,” he replied. “I’ll be headed to Sunnydale’s finest purveyor of goods-for-a-dollar in a bit here, see if I can find a little something for everyone.”

“I guess that’s all right,” she sighed, looking worried. “Take someone with you, though. There’s safety in numbers. But not Dawn, or the girls. Um, or Willow. I want her here in case we need magickal protection.”

Dawn grumbled something under her breath.

“Giles?”

Buffy laughed tiredly. “No, I think he’ll want to be here to watch over his charges. Take him.” She nodded in my direction. “He can carry your packages. Make himself useful for once.”

“I baked muffins,” I grumbled under my breath.

“He baked muffins,” Xander said out loud.

“They were okay,” Dawn shrugged.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Yes, muffins are also of the good. But it’s him or Anya. I don’t want you going alone.” She looked off towards the kitchen then. “While you’re at it, can you pick up some new chains? About fifteen feet would be good. I’ll give you cash.”

“Manacles?”

“Duh. You know the guy, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll give him a call before I head over. Make sure you give me your punch card.” She looked at him blankly. “You know, buy ten sets of dungeon hardware, get the eleventh free.”

That startled a laugh out of her. “I wish. Ironmongery is spendy. No new boots for Buffy this year.”

“Well, maybe Dawn here will cut off her hair and sell it so she can buy you boots.” 

Dawn looked horrified.

Buffy raised her eyebrows. “And then I’m supposed to… cut off my feet and sell them so I can buy Dawn a hair comb? Isn’t that how the story goes?”

“I’ll admit, I had not thought that all the way through. Guess Dawn can keep her hair.” He ruffled said hair affectionately.

Buffy glanced off to the side again. “Is Spike…. Has he woken up yet?”

“Not as such. He’s out like the proverbial light.” Xander shifted awkwardly. “What about you? Did you get any sleep?”

“Some. But I wasn’t hanging on a cave wall for half a week. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.” Xander cleared his throat awkwardly. “So, coffee?”

“I can microwave it myself. Chains are more important.” 

“All righty, then.” 

While Xander was calling the mysterious Chains Guy, I went in the kitchen and made up a shopping list for the cookies. We needed flour, of course, and more walnuts, and lots more butter. I know some people like to bake with vegetable shortening or margarine, but I am firmly on Team Butter. It tastes better, and it makes the cookies really melt in your mouth, you know? I mean, what good are chewy cookies if they taste like plastic? 

Buffy drank her coffee in the sitting room, just staring at the basement door. She did have a muffin, though. I think it brightened her morning, just a little. Plus, potassium.

Shopping with Xander was weird. First of all, buying the chains meant parking his car in a sketchy back alley behind an adult bookstore and handing over a huge wad of Buffy’s cash to a guy who looked like Pee Wee Herman. Maybe it  _ was  _ Pee Wee Herman, or, um, whatever his real name is; I heard he got arrested last month but they let him out on bail, so maybe he’s trying to turn his life around and create a new life on the straight and narrow in Sunnydale? I don’t know. He refused to do the “I’m trying to use the phone!” line, so there’s really no saying. Also, Xander whapped me on the head and made me load the chains into his trunk after that so I didn’t get a closer look.

Chains are heavy. They don’t look heavy on TV but they really are.

The grocery store was really fast, except Xander made me get the cheap store-brand vanilla extract instead of the good stuff. I guess he didn’t have much left after the chains.

The dollar store was what took the most time. First of all, Xander loaded up a bunch of cheap candy in the cart -- he’d gotten a little at the grocery store, but they were super picked over, nothing left but candy canes and licorice coal -- and then he went and picked out a bunch of Christmas mugs, trying to get different designs for everybody. In the end we had to double up on one design, but the reindeer on one of those had crossed eyes so you could tell them apart. He grabbed a bunch of lame party favors from the party aisle, too -- little rubber monster pencil toppers, and kazoos, and a package of those things where you use a magnet to put iron-filings facial hair on a goofy face -- and a package of pencils painted up like candy canes. I think he got Buffy a couple extra things, too -- some nail polish, and a pair of fuzzy socks that said “HO HO HO.” It actually ended up being more money than what Dawn had given us, but Xander just put it on his card.

“I wasn’t going to make Dawn pay for it anyhow,” he confided in me as we stood in the checkout line. “I’ll take a twenty, give her the rest back, and tell her it was all on sale. That way she still has her puppy fund, for when this is all over.”

You know, he’s pretty cool. I can see why he’s the Good Cop and Anya is the Scary Insano Cop.

When we got back, Xander had me sneak the bags through the kitchen into the dining room, so that we could pretend nobody knew they were getting a mug full of junk from the dollar store. Buffy was there talking to Anya and Mr. Giles, looking all serious, her arms folded. Willow was on the other side of the room, looking really upset. Spike was there, too, sitting in a chair but not tied up, which made me jump. I thought he would look at me all mean after that, but he just looked tired. Everyone is always so tired here! When all this is over with, maybe I should recommend a nice spa in Tijuana so everyone can go have a vacation. I know the  _ Mehican  _ tradition of “siesta” did wonders for the circles under my eyes.

“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is,” Buffy was saying when we came into the room. “The spell was cast, I was brought back, the damage was done. We can’t change that now. I mean, sure, you can cuddle your personal sense of guilt like a teddy bear when you try to sleep at night -- if you don’t want to sleep, that is -- but it doesn’t give us an idea of how to act.”

“The Eye was really quite adamant,” Mr. Giles harrumphed. “It insisted there was no way--”

“How many times in my life -- correction,  _ lives _ , plural -- have I been told there’s  _ no way _ I can possibly take down an unstoppable enemy?” Buffy drummed her fingers on her arms. “I feel like there’s something we’re missing. Something important.”

“I was the one who cast the spell that caused this,” Willow said from across the room, miserably. “Maybe there’s something I can do to repair the damage.”

“Maybe,” Buffy said gently. “But if it was an easy spell, the Eye would have known, don’t you think?” She walked a little bit away from the others. “We know the First is currently trying to eradicate the Slayer line. Why?”

“Because Slayers slay evil things?” Xander set his bags down on the table. “What did I miss?”

Anya waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, just that it’s our fault the First is able to find the Potentials and kill them, because we brought Buffy back from the dead, yadda yadda. Also, is there something wrong with my hair?”

“Your hair’s terrific, Ahn. So is that what Beljoxa’s Eye had to say? It’s our fault, and it hates your hair?”

“Pretty much,” Anya sighed, sinking into a chair. “Not very useful. It’s not my fault my hairdresser moved to San Diego.”

“Here’s a question,” Buffy said suddenly, turning around. “You said the slayer line was exposed by my resurrection. That was in August of last year. Giles, when did the Watcher’s Council start getting reports of slain Potentials?”

“During the summer, I believe Robson said. Middle of June? That would have been Lola, in Germany.”

“So why did the First wait almost a year before it started hunting? What happened in the middle of June?”

“The premiere of hit reality show American Idol?” I suggested. 

Yes, Gentle Readers, it was a long shot. I admit it. But the silence that followed made it plain that my long shot was in fact the only idea of merit. I was three steps into devising a complicated theory involving Simon Cowell and his plans of world domination through evil pop music when another voice spoke up.

“I know something that happened in the middle of June.” Spike’s voice was low and grudging; he was looking at the floor.

Buffy walked closer, looking down at him. “What happened in June?”

He sighed, resigned. “Middle of June, I walked into a cave in Africa. Few days later -- might have been a week, hard to say -- I crawled out again with my… prize.” He looked up her then, his face half proud, half ashamed.

“Your soul,” Buffy whispered.

They just looked at each other for a while, like the rest of us weren’t even in the room.

Finally Mr. Giles cleared his throat. “When we originally encountered the First, its manipulations were also directed at a vampyre with a soul.”

That broke the sizzling eye contact between Buffy and Spike; he growled and looked one way, and she flinched and looked the other. 

“Angel,” Buffy said, her voice flat. “It kept appearing to him in dreams and when he was awake, as people he’d killed. It was trying to get him to kill me, and when he resisted it almost got him to kill himself instead. If it weren’t for a freak snowfall….”

“Isn’t that what it’s been doing to Spike?” Willow came back over to the group, arms wrapped around herself. “I mean, first it made him all crazycakes, and then it put the trigger in his head.”

“And it made him try to kill me.” Buffy looked at Spike again, though he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “And then when that didn’t work, the First kidnapped Spike. Why?”

Mr. Giles looked at Spike too, eyes narrow. “It was Christmas then, as well.”

“‘Tis the season,” Buffy laughed bitterly. “God, no wonder I have a complex. Complexes, plural.”

Xander stepped up and threw his arm around her shoulder in a quick hug. “So, any chance the First’s real secret is that he’s the Grinch?”

She laughed at that, almost a real laugh. “Unlikely. But I’m thinking we’re spinning our wheels right now. Giles, Anya, thanks for following up on this lead. Now that we’re all on the same page, maybe we can let things percolate, see what we come up with. But Dawn was right. We need… we need to have one night of the year that’s about something beyond the war we’re stuck in. We need a little Christmas.”

“Right this very minute?” Xander said on cue, grinning.

I was opening my mouth to take on the next line of the song when Buffy sliced her hand through the air in the universal hand signal for  _ shut up. _ “No singing!”

“Not even the dreidel song?” Willow asked innocently.

“Would you put it past the First Evil to make Spike go postal for Chanukah?”

“Good point. But for all we know, the First Evil might not even subscribe to Judeo-Christian belief systems at all.”

Anya rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You know, this was a day of power long before Saint Nick got his greedy little paws on it. Do we have eggnog?”

“In the fridge,” Buffy sighed, and with that we dispersed. Xander started assembling treat-filled mugs on the dining room table with Willow’s help, Anya wandered off for eggnog, and Buffy and Spike went to get the chains out of Xander’s trunk. Mr. Giles disappeared, presumably to write some more.

I, of course, went into the kitchen and started butter softening for the various batches of cookies. Buffy has a really nice kitchen, and a fantastic stand mixer; I was really excited to make the biscotti. When I had my bowls of butter all set up, I took a walk into the sitting room and stood in the doorway that led to the living room, watching the Potentials still trimming the tree. It was really a very homey scene; I couldn’t wait to pull my first batch of Christmas cookies out of the oven. 

It seemed like a miracle that I, my hands forever stained by the terrible deeds I had been forced to do, should have found a place where I could be part of a family, a place that was warm and welcoming -- if occasionally kind of mean -- and filled with the joyful spirit of the holiday season.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” I sighed happily.

“It sure is,” Jonathan agreed.

END CHAPTER 2


	3. Chapter 3

“Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring-ting-tingling, too!” Jonathan sang, then laughed. “Hey, did you hear what I did there?  _ Slay _ bells jingling. Oh, I slay myself.” He glared at me. “No, wait, you did that, didn’t you?”

“You’re not Jonathan,” I said as I backed away. “You’re The First Evil.” My butt came up against the sitting room table then, and I couldn’t back any further, so I tried to brazen it out. “Um, also, I think you should look into hiring a publicist, maybe getting a legal name change? Because I don’t think ‘The First Evil’ has enough pizzazz to really strike terror in the hearts of--”

“Yeah, when I need your advice I’ll -- okay, that won’t ever happen.” Jonathan-slash-The-First peeked around the corner again. “Wow, they sure look like they’re having a good time. Too bad you’re not invited.”

“I am so invited!” I said, secure in my convictions. “Xander got me a mug and a pencil and everything.” Okay, so maybe I didn’t feel all that secure, and maybe I was pouting a little. But only a little. By that time I’d figured out which way to back to get past the table, so I was almost in the kitchen.

Jonathan followed me. “Uh-huh. So why are you in here with an apron, instead of out there enjoying the festivities.”

“I like baking. In fact, I was going to make coconut macaroons right now.” I reached behind me and grabbed the coconut and eggs and stuff and put them all on the island so I could keep my eyes on Jonathan. “What do you want from me, Jonathan-slash-The-First? Information? Well, I will never talk. Never!”

He laughed at me. “News flash, nerd. I already know everything. I know what you know, I know what they know, I know everything that’s been said in this house. I’m not here to get you to squeal.”

“Well, um, that’s good. Because I’m not gonna.” I started measuring the coconut; my hands were shaking a little, but I managed. “I follow Buffy's orders now. I'm redeeming myself for killing you -- I mean, for killing Jonathan.”

“Please!” He snorted derisively. “Like there’s anything good under there  _ to  _ redeem. You’re a murderer.”

“Just because you made me--” The vanilla was a little harder than the coconut, that little tiny spoon, but I got it in the bowl, too.

“I  _ asked _ you, and you agreed. It wasn’t even all that hard to convince you.” Jonathan strolled over to the counter and looked in the bowls. “Mmm, butter. You know, I like my cookies baked with butter. Or I did when I was alive, at least. They’re just so crispy, and the taste is miles better. No, I think you wanted to kill me. You’d had a secondhand taste of death, with that girlfriend of Warren’s, and you wanted to try it on for yourself.” He smiled then, nodding invitingly. “How did you like it?”

His eyes were dead. “I didn’t like it.” I started to open the can of sweetened condensed milk so I didn’t have to look at him.

“Oh, I think you did. I think it made you feel powerful. Strong.” His voice got sad then; I bet his eyes got sadder, but I still wasn’t looking. “Do you know how it made me feel, that you had more trouble stabbing a pig than you did stabbing me?”

“That was because….” I couldn’t say it, though, that watching his eyes go dead had changed me; I just watched the thick river of condensed milk flow slowly into the bowl, scraping the can with a spoon. It’s not fair to Jonathan, that he, the minor character, had to die so that I, the protagonist, could experience character growth. Nobody likes to know that they were fridged. “The pig was really cute.” I stirred and stirred, remembering.

I needed to stop thinking about the stabbing. What came next in the recipe? Oh, the egg whites. I opened the carton of eggs and looked at them, but I stopped myself in time. Separating eggs is a challenge even when you’re  _ not  _ being menaced by the origin of all evil, and once you break a yolk, it’s all over. Best to wait.

“Uh-huh.” Jonathan took a step closer. “Look, buddy, I have an assignment for you.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You don’t even know what I’m asking.” He sounded wounded by my betrayal.

“I know it’s all part of your evil plan. Can it at least wait until after Christmas? I really want to bake these cookies.”

“No, it really can’t. I need it done today.” He sighed. “Look, this isn’t how I wanted things to go, either. I had plans. I was going to take my time about it, you know? I’ve been around for millennia, and I’ll be around for millennia more. I’m eternal. There’s no need to rush things. I could have picked away at the slayer line for decades, whittling down the wanna-be’s so gradually that the Watchers wouldn’t even notice until it was too late. And they can’t always be defending  _ this  _ Hellmouth, can they? Sometimes a new slayer pops up in Uganda, or Finland. Sometimes Cleveland’s on the boil. I could have waited until the time was just right.”

“So why didn’t you?” At this point, not looking was creeping me out more than just looking, so I looked. He was smiling at me now like we were still friends, like when we were two desperados on the run.

“Things changed.”

“Is this about Spike’s soul? Because that seems kind of a lame thing to be worried about. All it does is make him feel guilty.”

“You really are a moron,” Jonathan said, shaking his head, still smiling. “Of course that’s not all a soul does. But none of that matters now. What matters  _ now _ is that Spike got rescued way ahead of schedule. He was supposed to be my guest for a few more days at least, and now his being free, his being in this house, throws a wrench in the works.”

“I don’t want to activate his trigger. Getting bit really hurt.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “That won’t do any good now. I already know he won’t kill the slayer, even under my control. I mean, it would be  _ funny _ if he killed everyone else, and useful in the long run, but that wouldn’t solve today’s problem.”

“I don’t want to stab anybody.”

“And you don’t have to. Trust me, this is a really easy thing I need you to do. No stabbing, no killing, no blood and gore. But you know, right now is actually not the best time. It’s way too early in the day. I just wanted to give you a heads up. So you go ahead and bake your cookies. Watch your movies, open your lame present. I’ll be back with your assignment a little later, okay? Be ready to act on my signal. In the meantime, when the evening’s festivities start, just stick to Spike like glue. You’ll like that, right?” Jonathan smirked like he knew something I didn’t. “Maybe he’ll tell you his secret to rock-hard abs.”

And then he was gone.

It took me a few minutes to stop shaking, but then I separated the eggs perfectly. There’s a reason I got an A-plus in Home Economics.

Well, okay, B-plus. But I’m really good with eggs.

*

I had the last sheet of macaroons in the oven and was working on the biscotti dough when Mr. Giles came up from the basement, looking annoyed. I greeted him cheerfully, even though I was still kind of shaken up; he peered briefly into the living room, then shuddered and came back into the kitchen to pour himself some of his fancy alcohol. I understood the urge; unfortunately they had been out of Zima at the grocery store, and Mr. Giles’s stuff smelled like paint thinner, so I was unable to drown my own sorrows in hooch.

I’d debated whether I should tell somebody about Jonathan-slash-The-First’s visit, but eventually decided that it would just ruin everyone’s Christmas mood, to know that The First was spying on us and trying to convince me to betray the household. Not that I was going to, of course! I was totally on Buffy’s side! But, you know, me being a murderer for some reason made people not trust me completely, despite my charming manner and delicious baked goods.

When Mr. Giles had selected a fresh macaroon to go with his drink, I decided maybe if I expressed an interest in his hobbies we could bond. Maybe he could even be my mentor! So when I had switched out the macaroons in the oven for the first baking of the biscotti, I turned to him with my most winning smile. “How is your novel coming along, Mr. Giles?” 

“My what?”

“Your novel. Um, your writing project. In the notebook.” 

Mr. Giles glanced at the notebook sitting next to his drink. “Ah, yes. My  _ novel. _ I’m considering leasing a lonely cabin in the woods to complete it. Or perhaps becoming a hotel’s winter caretaker.” He glared at the basement door. “It would certainly involve less bickering.”

“Potentials getting you down?” I nodded sympathetically.

“More like a certain slayer and her… pet vampyre arguing about the placement of his chains.”

“Chains don’t sound comfortable. I can see how he’d want them arranged so he could rest.”

Mr. Giles shook his head. “Buffy’s the one trying to make him comfortable. Oddly enough, Spike is the one insisting his chains be shorter and the manacles tighter.” He looked puzzled, which I can understand because I was also quite stymied by Spike’s motivations. 

“And they’re arguing?”

“Like an old married couple.” Mr. Giles dunked his macaroon in his Scotch. “It’s enough to drive a man to drink.”

“Oh.” I tried to picture it. “So they’re… throwing dishes and blaming each other for their child’s demon-summoning tendencies?”

Mr. Giles looked at me silently for a moment. “Not precisely.”

“All right. Just asking.” I checked the timer real quick. “Did you know that biscotti actually means ‘twice-baked?’”

“Yes, from the Latin  _ biscoctus _ , as is our English word biscuit. But etymology is not meaning; I am afraid in modern usage  _ biscotti _ still just means the biscuit -- er, cookie.” He looked at the basement door again, clearly worried. “I really must have a talk with Buffy about Spike. I have grave concerns about this situation.”

“I don’t know. Don’t you think it’s kinda poetic? A vampyre in love with a slayer of vampyres?”

The timer dinged and I went to get the biscotti loaves out of the oven, setting them aside to cool before prepping them for the second baking They looked really good, perfectly done. Buffy’s oven is really nice. A lot better than trying to bake in a toaster oven, like Jonathan and I had down in  _ Mehico _ . I was really looking forward to seeing how the peanut butter blossoms turned out later on; those were like the circuit-training-workout of the baking world. See, they’re like a one-man assembly line -- roll out the cookie balls, put them on the cookie sheet, unwrap the kisses while they’re baking, get another cookie sheet ready to go in, then when they’ve been switched race against time to get all the kisses pressed into the cookies before they cooled. I was really good at that. 

Once the biscotti were on the cooling racks I took a minute to clean off the beaters I’d used, too, so I could get on the next batch of cookies pronto. The afternoon was getting on, and I didn’t want to miss  _ Die Hard _ .

When I was done with all of that, I turned around to continue bonding with my future mentor, and that was when I realized Mr. Giles was no longer in the kitchen, and that he’d taken his bottle with him. Weird, huh?

*

By the time I had all the cookies baked, Xander had finished wrapping the presents for everybody and the tree was all decorated, along with a bunch of festive greenery and lights in the dining room. Dawn was really fussy about that, insisting it be just the way her mom had done it, which was kind of a pain but looked pretty nice when it was all finished. Not that we could all eat at the table there, now that our numbers had expanded; when the Chinese food was delivered, they just spread it all out on the table and everyone served up and went out to sit wherever. I put the cookies out, too, and they were received very well, if I do say so myself. I was especially proud of the biscotti -- it’s so hard to get them just right, so they’re consistently crispy without being too hard. They came out  _ perfect _ .

Just when most people had got their first helpings of food, Buffy came into the room. Spike followed her, looking kind of grumpy. Not I’m-going-to-bite-you-grumpy, I guess, but I was glad that I didn’t have any of my treasured collectible figurines around for him to pop the heads off. I still wonder what happened to those. Sometimes it keeps me up at night; I miss my little buddies. Anyhow, he had a shirt on now, something dark green and loose, and he did look a lot better rested than he had when he’d come home, now that I was getting a good look at him.

“Hey, girls,” Buffy said in a determined voice, addressing the Potentials. “I know you all saw him when I brought him home last night, but we didn’t really get to do introductions, so I wanted you to meet Spike. You all have heard a lot about him, and I’m sure at least ten percent of what you heard is true. So just to confirm, yes, he is a vampyre. He’s also on our side, and starting the day after tomorrow, he’s going to be helping me with your training. I think having a real vampyre to practice against is going to be a huge benefit to you.” She folded her arms, glaring at Giles for some reason. “That being said, we still have some... issues with The First that need resolution, so I’m going to be sticking by him until we’ve got that squared away, and when I can’t be with him, he’ll be chained in the basement. Please use appropriate caution, and also please avoid starting arguments about punk music, Manchester United, or twentieth-century poetry. That last bit is for my sanity, by the way.” She turned and grabbed Spike by the arm, dragging him forward. “So Spike, this is Vi. Rona. Chloe. Kennedy. Molly.” She indicated each girl in turn; they responded with half-hearted waves and mumbled greetings. Spike nodded back, looking sullenly embarrassed.

“I like Man U,” Molly piped up into the awkward silence that followed.

“Cheers,” Spike muttered in response.

“We were just about to begin the festivities with our annual double feature of Christmas cheer.” Xander gestured expansively towards the television set.

“Ooh, I didn’t miss the Snoopy dance, did I?” Buffy’s voice sounded perky and upbeat, but her face still looked determined and a little grim. “Let me grab some food and pull up a chair.” She went into the dining room; Spike followed her closely.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” he grumbled under his breath as they left the room.

She said something back, but I couldn’t quite hear it because the Potentials all started whispering to each other, except of course they whisper super loud. They didn’t say anything interesting, though, just more of the same, oh no, vampyre in the house, blah blah blah. I think it was a little insensitive of them, as everyone knows vampyres have enhanced hearing. I mean, the main Scoobies were maintaining a respectful silence, just looking at each other, and I, who had actually been bitten by the vampyre, was overflowing with welcoming good cheer. After all, if you can’t forgive someone for killing people at Christmas, then you are severely lacking in Christmas Spirit and that’s that. You may as well just call yourself Scrooge.

Anyhow, Buffy came back with two plates of food -- one with kung pao and egg rolls and the other loaded up with cookies -- and Spike dragged two dining room chairs in and set them up right by the foyer archway, one kind of behind the other. He sat in the back one. I was sitting on the floor kind of off to the side, so I had a peripheral view of them and also was the closest to Spike other than Buffy. I like to think it was because they knew I could handle having a vampyre in the close vicinity, unlike the timid, gossipy Potentials.

What’s that, Gentle Readers? You think it might have been because I was the most expendable, in case Spike did get triggered by a jolly Christmas tune? Well, you may believe what you wish.

In any case, the festivities began with a screening of  _ A Charlie Brown Christmas _ . As promised, Xander provided a splendid shadow-cast performance of the Snoopy Dance, and we were all much impressed. It occurred to me while watching him that the Scooby Gang could actually provide a delightful shadow cast of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Spike could be Rocky, and Buffy could be Janet. Anya would probably enjoy playing Magenta and Willow has the right hair to be Columbia -- I don’t know if she can tap-dance, but I don’t think Little Nell could, either. Xander is a toss-up between Brad and Eddie; he might have to play both, as we are a little short on men. I, of course, would play the vital role of Riff Raff. The Potentials could be the guests at the party who do the Time Warp. I got stuck though on who could possibly pull off the role of Frank-N-Furter. The only man left in the household is Mr. Giles, and I can’t possibly imagine him in a corset and pearls. I guess he could play the Criminologist, though. Or the wheelchair guy. Whichever he wanted.

While I was enjoyably musing on this topic, I was also an inadvertent witness to Buffy’s conversation with Spike. Completely by accident, you understand.

“They’ll have to get used to you sooner or later,” Buffy whispered. “Want some kung pao?”

“Rather it be later,” he grumbled. “And no, you should eat it. You’ve lost weight.”

“Just a pound or two,” she mumbled, but she stopped whispering for a bit and ate.

Spike didn’t say a word while she was eating.

“Seriously, have a bite,” she urged a little while later. 

“I don’t need it. Had my blood earlier.”

I could almost hear her eyes rolling. “I know you don’t  _ need _ it. But I also know you like spicy food, Mister spicy-Buffalo-wings-I’m-feeling-peckish.”

“Not in the mood, Slayer.”

“Fine.” Buffy scarfed down the rest of her kung pao chicken. “You have to help me eat these cookies, though.” 

“Do we have bourbon?”

“Giles probably does.”

“The way the Watcher’s looking at me, don’t feel inclined to ask.”

Buffy picked up one of the biscotti then, biting off a crispy end. “Mmm. Try this one.” She held the cookie out for Spike to take a bite. “Hey, where’d we buy the biscotti?” she asked the room, a little louder.

“I baked them,” I said, feeling suddenly shy, partly because even though, as previously mentioned, the biscotti were  _ perfect _ , I am a modest man at heart, and partly because I had been in my little Rocky Horror fancast world, wondering how likely it was Spike would actually agree to wear those gold briefs. It’s not like we all haven’t seen his bare chest, though I guess we should wait until he’s healed up.

“Really?” Buffy looked at me with newfound respect. “They’re good.” She took another bite off the end of the biscotti, right where Spike had bitten, and while I don’t think it was very hygienic, it was kind of romantic as well. Though I don’t know. Do vampyres have germs?

I watched out of the corner of my eye as Buffy and Spike took turns taking bites of the biscotti, until Buffy tucked the last bit in Spike’s mouth and brushed a crumb away from his chin.

“There,” she whispered. “Want another?”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered. 

“Fine. Just watch the movie. We all know you like Peanuts.”

“ _ Great Pumpkin _ is better,” he sniffed, but then a little while later, I could swear I heard him sniffle a bit at the charming, heartwarming conclusion of the fourth-best Christmas story of all time. (The others are -- in reverse order of awesome -- number three, the tragically-not-on-the-agenda-tonight  _ How The Grinch Stole Christmas _ , number two,  _ Die Hard _ , and number one, this story I am telling you right now.)

After that video was over, Dawn bounced up out of her chair. “It’s almost ten. Time for presents?” She looked at Buffy for approval. Buffy looked back with a deer-in-the-headlights expression, another biscotti in her mouth.

“Yes?” she managed to say around her mouthful of cookie, and Dawn squealed and went to distribute the lumpy gifts from under the tree.

“Now, everyone needs to open them at once,” Xander decreed. “Because if the identical shape, size, and weight of all the packages didn’t clue you in, they are all, uh, kind of similar. But we hope you like them anyhow.”

I was about to tear into mine to see which mug had been chosen for me -- Xander had insisted I have at least one surprise, because he’s cool that way -- when I noticed Spike was staring at the wrapped package in his hands like it was a really hard crossword puzzle.

“What’s wrong?” Buffy whispered under the sound of tearing paper.

“Just… not used to presents,” he murmured back. “Wasn’t expecting….” He broke off and opened his present -- surprisingly carefully, like he didn’t want to rip it -- staring at the contents when they were revealed. 

“They’re only token gifts,” Buffy said softly. “I, um, didn’t get to do any shopping myself.”

He shrugged, still staring at the mug in his hands, stuffed with candy and cheap toys. “This’ll do me,” he said softly.

“Ooh!” Willow bounced up from her seat on the other side of the room. “Look at his little crossed eyes!” She leaned over and showed her reindeer to Mr. Giles.

“I knew you’d want that one,” Xander laughed. “Sorry they didn’t have any Chanukah mugs at the store.”

“No, reindeer are secular,” Willow insisted. “He’s adorable!”

It’s funny that those little gifts, even though they were last-minute and cheap and identical, really did feel like something special. Like tiny luxuries in a war zone. I know I still treasure my own one-dollar generic-Christmas-present-design mug as if it were fine china. Although some of the people present who shall not be named seemed less than impressed by their bounty, for the most part we were all as filled with good cheer as if we had received everything from the twelve lords-a-leaping down to the partridge-in-a-pear-tree.

Oh, fine. It was Kennedy. She didn’t like her present. I was trying to be discreet, but you dragged it out of me. I kind of expected it would be Anya, because she doesn’t like anything, but after she opened hers she just gave Xander a funny look, like she wanted to get all bouncy like Willow but didn’t feel like she could. I think Xander might have slipped something extra in for her, like he did for Buffy? Or maybe he picked out just the right mug. I am starting to get the idea that maybe Xander and Anya have some kind of past history. Which is funny, because I thought she and-- never mind.

Anyhow, we swiftly moved on to the second-best Christmas story of all time. After the obligatory friendly education of those who disputed  _ Die Hard _ ’s categorization as a Christmas movie, we settled in to watch the heartwarming tale of the man who saved Christmas and his marriage (the sequels do not count here!) from young Professor Snape by blowing things up and getting terribly, terribly injured while maintaining his dry New Yorker humor. I know I was not the only one who occasionally glanced at Spike as John McClane became more and more bloody, comparing.

The camera was just revealing the gun taped to McClane’s back -- that moment gets me every time, it’s so awesome! -- when my attention was distracted by a flash of red in the corner of my eye; I turned just in time to see Buffy disappearing around the corner into the hall.

That was when I realized Spike was gone. And I was supposed to be sticking to him like glue! Not that The First Evil was the boss of me. I just really wanted to know what Spike was up to. Really.

“I, uh, think I need some more noodles,” I said, heading into the dining room. Nobody seemed to notice, but to be fair, the movie was at the best part.

I slipped through the dining room and just far enough into the darkened kitchen that I could see what was going on; Buffy had caught up with Spike outside the basement door and had her hand on his arm.

”Where do you think you’re going?” She was keeping her voice quiet, but she sounded mad.

He shrugged. “Downstairs. Best get chained up before this turns into  _ Silent Night, Deadly Night. _ ”

“I was there to protect everybody.”

“And who would protect you?” He sighed. “Look, Slayer, I appreciate the thought, but I don’t belong in your little family celebration.”

“You do belong.” Her voice was even quieter; she took a step closer. “I want you here.”

“Why? You feeling guilty? Or just lonely? It had bloody well better not be pity.”

“None of the above.” She bit her lip. “Well, a little bit of the lonely. But this isn’t just about that. This is about you and me.”

“There is no you and me.” He laughed bitterly, shaking her hand off. “I buggered that up earlier this year. Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”

“I remember.” Her voice got hard then. “I remember all of it. The terrible things you did to me... and the terrible things I did to you.”

“Nothing I didn’t ask for.”

“Nobody asks to be beat up in an alley and left for the morning sun.”

“That’s no excuse--”

“It’s not. There’s no excuse for what you did. Or for what I did. But I’m not excusing you.” She reached up and curved a hand around his cheek. “I’m forgiving you.” She bit her lip. “Will you forgive me?” And then her other hand pulled something out of her pocket and held it over her head.

Spike squinted at it. “What is that?”

“It’s mistletoe. I have it on good authority that it is an important Christmas tradition. You have to kiss me now.”

(In case you were not paying attention, Gentle Readers, I was the “good authority” of whom she spoke. But let’s get back to our moving tale.)

“You are off your bloody rocker,” Spike whispered.

“I am totally on my ‘bloody rocker.’ Kiss me.”

He set his hand over hers on his cheek, and I swear he started to lean in -- I was holding my breath in anticipation -- but then his hand wrapped around hers, removing it, and he took a step back.

“I can’t. You’re just… you’re caught up in the season. The rescue, the sexy wounds, the romance of the day.” He looked down at the ground, letting go of her hand. “If it weren’t Christmas Eve, you wouldn’t think of touching me.”

Buffy looked at him for a long time, still holding the mistletoe over her head. “Maybe you’re right,” she said at last. “Maybe I am just feeling Christmasy. Maybe… maybe if it had taken longer to rescue you, I would have reasoned myself out of feeling this way, or someone would have talked me out of it. Maybe I would have felt so guilty for leaving you down there in that hole at Christmas that I wouldn’t have been able to face you.” She stepped in, closing the gap between them again. “And maybe if I had done all that, I would have regretted it the rest of my life.”

He looked at her then, eyes wide. “Slayer, I--”

“Shh,” Buffy whispered, setting a finger gently on his lips. “I’ve done a lot of things I regret. A lot of them have involved you. But I won’t regret this.” She went up on tiptoe and kissed him; he swayed into her kiss like he was drunk.

A few seconds later he broke away. “Buffy, I don’t deserve--”

“I don’t deserve this either. Kiss me again.”

He did. I hadn’t ever seen real people kissing, like, in the same room, so I can’t really critique, but they looked like they were really enjoying it? Especially when Spike wrapped his arms around her and fell back against the basement door, like his legs weren’t working right. He has vampyre strength, plus his gluteus maximus muscles are really tight, so I’m sure his legs are actually quite strong.

After a bit, Buffy pulled back. “So,” she gasped. “Can I put this away now?” She wiggled the mistletoe, which was still kind of over their heads. “My arm is getting tired. Also, I have better things to do with my hands.”

“Yeah,” he said roughly, and he kissed her again while she was shoving it in her pocket. Once again, I would like to point out that I provided the mistletoe that made this tender moment happen, as well as the perfect biscotti that broke the ice. Am I a good matchmaker, or what?

There was a lot more kissing. I was starting to feel kinda bad for spying on them, but I reminded myself that historians would someday be interested in this development, plus I had already seen Spike having sex, albeit on a grainy camera feed, so it wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen before. And it wasn’t like they’d even noticed me, even though I was just a few feet away. I don’t think they’d have noticed if a bomb went off.

Finally though, Buffy took the decision out of my hands. “Take me downstairs,” she demanded, kissing Spike’s throat.

“All right,” he said faintly, fumbling for the doorknob, and then they stumbled through the door.

I sighed happily as the door closed behind them. Isn’t love grand?

“Help me, Andrew Wells. You are my only hope.”

That wasn’t Jonathan’s voice, or Warren’s. I turned around and there she was, the girl, that ex-girlfriend of Warren’s. The one he killed. She was standing by the dishwasher wearing the French maid costume he’d dressed her up in, which you’d think would look sexy, but it made me feel kind of sick instead.  You know, one tragic side effect of that incident is that I haven’t been able to watch  _ Clue  _ since then. Seeing a dead French maid on the movie screen is a lot different from having to change a dead girl out of her French maid outfit and back into her regular clothes so you can frame someone else for her murder.

“This is what you call ‘sticking to him like glue?’”

I had forgotten, in the moment, that I actually had a job to do other than just watching romance happen before my eyes. “I tried.”

“Like you tried to save me?”

“Yeah?” I had, hadn’t I? I don’t like to remember that day.

“You didn’t try to save me.” Her eyes were starting to trickle blood, like tears. “You tried to control me again, and then you stood there and watched while Warren killed me, and then you helped him cover it up. You tried to frame the slayer. And now you’re baking her cookies.” 

“I told you, I’m reformed.”

“Once a murdering rapist, always a murdering rapist.” The blood was all over her face now, and even knowing it wasn’t real blood, that it was an illusion, I couldn’t watch any more; I hid my face in my hands.

“I didn’t rape you!” That I knew for sure.

“You helped. You helped Warren make the cerebral dampener. You made suggestions while he was picking out a victim. ‘Juicy, pulsating candy.’ That was you, remember?” 

“No, I didn’t--”

“Only because your little toy stopped working. You were waiting your turn, weren’t you? You would have preferred the one with the ‘bazoombas,’ but in the end you weren’t all that picky.” She laughed then. I had never heard her laugh before, when she was alive, so it sounded really creepy. “And you can’t even use the lame excuse that you didn’t have a soul. You had a soul, all right, and now it’s black with sin.”

“Stop it!” My hands were fists against my face, my eyes screwed shut.

“Aww, did I push a little too hard, buddy?” That was Jonathan’s voice again, soothing and kind.

I opened my eyes and looked at him standing in front of me. He didn’t have any blood on him, and he was smiling.

“Sorry about that. I just wanted to remind you who you are, so you can drop this  _ I’m-reformed _ act and get back to helping me out.”

“I’m not going to help you,” I whispered.

“Oh, you are. You owe me. You killed me, remember? If you trip here at the finish line, all your pain, all your manly anguish, that will all have been for nothing.”

I couldn’t say anything to that. 

“I have your assignment,” Jonathan-slash-The-First continued. “Like I said, this one’s really easy. No stabbing, no killing, you hardly need to do anything at all. All you have to do is go down into the basement and, I don’t know, do some laundry, or work out. Just don’t let those two be alone.”

“Buffy and Spike?”

Jonathan nodded. “You heard Mr. Giles. He has ‘grave concerns’ about Spike. Buffy may be putting you all in danger, just so she can get cuddles from her undead lover. That’s not the sort of thing a good leader does.”

I nodded reluctantly. That made sense to me.

“So just open the door, go down the stairs, and be yourself. That’ll kill the mood right there.”

“Why can’t they just have sex?” I asked. “I mean, it is the twenty-first century. People have sex all the time, um, I’ve heard.”

“It’s not about the sex,” Jonathan said, looking annoyed. “The sex is what they’re doing, yeah, but it’s not what they’re  _ doing _ . And they’re not just people. They’re a vampyre slayer and a vampyre with a soul, and they’re in love.” He laughed then. “I mean, I never thought it could happen in the first place, so I wasn’t worried about it, and then when it looked like it might happen a few years back, I nipped that right in the bud. Wasn’t even all that hard. Who would have thought it could happen again, so soon?”

“I don’t get it.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “You never were the sharpest tool in the shed. Just go do it.”

And I looked him right in the eye and saw his true evil intent, and I sprang into action.

“Not today, Evil!” I shouted, and Jonathan-slash-The-First hissed at me like a snake and disappeared, and then, like, a dozen Bringers burst in through the back door. 

I leapt to bar their path, grabbing up, um, a huge sword that I had previously hidden in the potato bin, just in case, and a big wooden staff with a glowy stone stuck in the end of it, and I crossed them before me and smote the kitchen floor with a sound like thunder.

“You shall not pass!” I said in a voice like, um, thunder, and then I--

What do you mean, you don’t believe me? Whose story is this, anyhow? And I know I said thunder twice there, but really, there’s only so many things that sound boomy, so you need to just cut a guy some slack. I bet Peter Jackson and Joss Whedon don’t have to put up with this kind of nitpicking from their viewers.

...All right, all right. You got me, Gentle Readers. I was exaggerating just a little teensy bit to make it seem more dramatic. But that’s because what I really said was nowhere near as awesome as I wanted it to be. I mean, here I was, part of a Christmas Miracle, destined to go down in the annals of history, and in the heat of the moment, I choked and didn’t say anything cool at all.

But fine. You want to know what I really said? I’ll tell you what I really said. 

Let me rewind a little.

“I have your assignment,” Jonathan-slash-The-First continued. “Like I said, this one’s really easy. No stabbing, no killing, you hardly need to do anything at all. All you have to do is go down into the basement and, I don’t know, do some laundry, or work out. Just don’t let those two be alone.”

“Buffy and Spike?”

Jonathan nodded. “You heard Mr. Giles. He has ‘grave concerns’ about Spike. Buffy may be putting you all in danger, just so she can get cuddles from her undead lover. That’s not the sort of thing a good leader does.”

I nodded reluctantly. That made sense to me.

“So just open the door, go down the stairs, and be yourself. That’ll kill the mood right there.”

“Why can’t they just have sex?” I asked. “I mean, it is the twenty-first century. People have sex all the time, um, I’ve heard.”

“It’s not about the sex,” Jonathan said, looking annoyed. “The sex is what they’re doing, yeah, but it’s not what they’re  _ doing _ . And they’re not just people. They’re a vampyre slayer and a vampyre with a soul, and they’re in love.” He laughed then. “I mean, I never thought it could happen in the first place, so I wasn’t worried about it, and then when it looked like it might happen a few years back, I nipped that right in the bud. Wasn’t even all that hard. Who would have thought it could happen again, so soon?”

“I don’t get it.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “You never were the sharpest tool in the shed. Just go do it.”

And I looked him right in the eye -- no, I said I’d tell the truth. I couldn’t even look at him while I whispered it, the lamest line in the history of epic Christmas Miracles.

“No.”

I could feel Jonathan looking at me with his dead eyes. “What did you say?”

I wasn’t feeling very brave, but I pretended I was. “I said  _ no. _ I’m not going to go down there.”

“Seriously? I ask you to do the easiest job ever, as a personal favor to me, and you won’t do it? Even after you killed me? That’s gratitude for you.”

“You have minions. The guys with the no-eyes. Why can’t you send them in?”

“I’m a little short-handed right now. You should know, you helped pile up the bodies. The slayer took out the last few when she came to collect her boy-toy. It’s not like I can draw Harbingers of Death out of a magic hat. They have to be made. It’s a whole process.”

“Oh, really?” I put on my most interested face. I had a lot of practice using that with Jonathan, when he was talking about Star Trek: Voyager and claiming it was better than Enterprise. (As if! I know which captain I’d rather serve under!) “How do you make them?” 

He rolled his eyes. “Like I’m going to get distracted now. Look, buddy, there’s a deadline here. I need you to go downstairs  _ now. _ ”

I cringed a little. He wasn’t sounding so much like my friend any more, his voice had gotten all echoey and awful. “Well, why can’t you do it yourself? If you want them interrupted--”

“I can’t interfere, not with this. There are rules to these things. We’re at the event horizon, and I’m not allowed to cross over. You have to do it for me.”

Around that time something weird started happening. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop on Buffy and Spike -- I swear I wasn’t, this time! -- but for some reason I started hearing their voices, real time, like an echo in the room. I would have thought by now they’d be all grunting and groaning, like on cable porn, but it sounded like they were just talking, maybe with some kissing in there.

_ I’m sorry,  _ whispered Spike.

_ So am I, _ Buffy whispered back.  _ Forgive me? _

_ I already did, ages ago. _

“No!” Jonathan shouted, his voice distorted. “Get down those stairs now!” He was in my face, his eyes all dead; I backed away instinctively, which put me up against the basement door.

_ I was so scared _ , she said.  _ You were gone, and I couldn’t think of anything but getting you back. _

“Turn the knob!” His face was bleeding now, blood on his chest and his hands and I kept remembering the feel of the knife as I made his eyes dead and I put my hand on the knob, but I didn’t turn it. 

_ I knew you would _ , Spike murmured. _ I knew you would come for me. _

“Now!” His voice sounded like the hellhounds my stupid brother had summoned. I remember Tucker threatened to set them loose on me, before he attacked the prom, because I didn’t want to do the dishes for him. I ended up doing the dishes.

My hand tightened on the knob.

_ I will always come for you. Always. You’re mine. _

Jonathan’s bloody eyes were huge and pleading. And dead. “ _ Do it now! _ ” he shrieked.

“No,” I whispered, closing my eyes.

_ I’m yours. I’m always yours. I love you, Buffy. _

_Spike…_ _I love you, too._

The clock in the dining room struck midnight, chimes softly echoing into the kitchen.

Jonathan wailed like a banshee, and I opened my eyes to see him staggering back away from me, clutching at his bleeding chest, his eyes wide with betrayal.

“You fool!” he bellowed in a voice just like Tim Curry in _ Legend _ \-- which is a lot less cool when it’s actually in the same room as you, not on surround-sound speakers, let me tell you. It actually made my ears hurt.

“I didn’t do anything!”

“You really are a worthless human,” Jonathan snarled. “A disappointment to your parents, a disappointment to your friends, and now a disappointment to me. To  _ me _ !”

“Uh, sorry?” I watched Jonathan writhe from across the room, not really sure what was going on, though it looked like something bad for The First. “What’s going on?” I asked, not wanting to assume.

He laughed then, bitterly, his voice echoing like we were in a huge church instead of a kitchen. “I was warned,” he said. “Millennia ago, before the written word, in a language none have spoken for centuries, there came a warning. A day of power, a warrior of light, a dark knight reformed. I was warned, but I knew it could never happen, and so I kept on, toying with humanity, watching for my chance to become something more, to take my rightful place at the top of the food chain.”

“A prophecy?”

Jonathan ignored my perfectly reasonable request for clarification. “And now look at me. I’m fading! All because of this pathetic, two-bit slayer who likes to walk on the wild side.” He laughed again.

“You do, um, look a little…” At his glare, I trailed off.

“The other one was easier,” Jonathan-slash-The-First said, his face wavering like a heat mirage. “Show him a few dreams, remind him of who he was, and he was all ready to kill her, or himself. He wanted to consume her so very badly. Would have gotten him, too, if those meddling Powers-That-Be hadn’t decided they had a use for him. But he gave up and left, so the problem was solved.” 

His face didn’t much look like Jonathan any more; I can’t really describe it, except that it was like the human mask had been ripped away and what was underneath it was a monster, but all faded and melting away. “But this one. Went to all the trouble of setting up a trigger, so he’d kill her for me, but one taste of the slayer’s blood and he found himself again, and she didn’t have the guts to finish him off. Then I got him all to myself, tried to break him, but he just kept on believing, the sap. And she believed in him, too. That shouldn’t be possible.” 

The monster face was melting now, and I was waiting to see what was under that, but… there was nothing. It was nothing underneath.

“One more day,” it burbled. “If she’d waited just one more day, I’d have had all the time I needed to release my army, bring forth hell on Earth. Christmas only comes once a year. I could have had the world at my feet by May, June at the latest. Just one more day….”

It wailed again, kind of melting into the floor like the Wicked Witch of the West except with way better special effects, and its wail faded away, and then it was gone.

I let go of the doorknob, trembling.

“That was very well done of you.” 

I spun around to see Mr. Giles, emerging from the dining room. He was looking at me with that Gandalfy expression of his, a macaroon in his hand.

“Uh, yeah,” I said nervously. That had probably sounded pretty weird, just my half of the conversation. “The macaroons turned out pretty good. Have you tried the biscotti?”

He smiled faintly. “I meant what just happened with The First Evil.”

I reflexively turned to look at the spot in the floor where Jonathan had been, but no. Still gone. “You could hear it?”

“Yes. I rather suspect that was intentional, that The First Evil was, well, covering its bases, hoping that if I heard what it had to say I would take up the standard, should you refuse.”

“Why didn’t you? You said you have grave concerns.”

Mr. Giles gave me a reproving look. “My concerns about Buffy and Spike are not grave enough to convince me to do evil’s direct bidding. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.” He removed his glasses, wiping them with a handkerchief. “Also, I am quite certain I do not wish to see what is apparently going on in the basement just now.”

“Oh.” I felt kind of stupid asking, but I thought I might not get another chance. “What did just happen?”

“Well, we’ll have to verify in some way -- perhaps the coven in England can assist there -- but from what I saw, it seems that The First Evil has ceased to be.” He settled his glasses back on his face.

“Bereft of life, it rests in peace?” 

He did not respond to my extremely-well-timed quote, instead gazing thoughtfully at that same spot in the floor. “Beljoxa’s Eye said it cannot be fought or killed. And we did not fight it, nor did we technically kill it. Bloody oracles.”

“I still don’t get it. Why would Buffy and Spike having… um, on Christmas, why would that make it fade away? I mean, Christianity’s only been around for, like, two thousand and two years, give or take.”

“Well, it spoke of a warning, and a day of power.” Mr. Giles seated himself on a stool, as if he were settling in to give a lecture. “There’s ample evidence indicating that this day, the day that became Christmas, has a far older history, that it’s been a day of power since before there was history. Perhaps since before there was evil? There’s really no knowing.” He looked at the basement door, eyes narrow. “I would surmise that, whatever the exact nature of the warning, The First hoped to avert it by either inducing Spike to kill Buffy or himself, or by keeping them apart on the destined day.”

“And that’s what it wanted me to do.” I looked at the floor, ashamed. “And I almost did it. I had my chance to be a super-cool hero, to stand strong in the face of evil, and all I could do was say  _ no _ . I am so lame.”

Mr. Giles shrugged as if he agreed, but then he spoke in a kind voice. “Sometimes all it takes for evil to be defeated is for a single person to say  _ no _ . A single twig can stem the flood.”

“It sucks to be the twig.”

“Indeed. It took great courage to refuse its demands.”

“Well, uh, I also was pretty sure Spike would kill me if I interrupted them.” I poked at my neck, which was still healing. “He bites hard.”

“Ah.” Mr. Giles sighed. “Well, fear is also a common human motivation. I’m certain you can work on developing courage, over time.”

“So is evil gone from the world forever?”

“Good heavens, no. The First Evil may have been vanquished, but the legacy of evil it spawned over millennia lives on, both supernatural and that which dwells in the hearts of men. There will never be any shortage of evil in the world.”

I nodded at this obvious wisdom, but something was still bothering me. “I don’t know. It still seems kind of lame, the Big Bad going down just because of, uh, sex.”

Mr. Giles looked meditatively at what was left of his macaroon. “I don’t believe that was its concern. What we heard from Buffy and Spike, there at the end, was not passion. It was forgiveness, and faith, and trust. Intimacy and understanding.  The bond between two people who have been through the fire, wronged each other deeply, and come out stronger, and despite all that pain, find true joy in each other.” He laughed softly. “Indeed, for all its concerns about Angel, in retrospect I doubt The First Evil was ever in any real danger, four years ago.” 

I must have looked really confused, because he sighed and went on. “English really is the most ridiculous language. We use just one word, love, to describe a myriad of emotions, from the first thrill of sexual attraction to the comfortable devotion of an aged couple. We love our friends and we love our family. We love pets, we love movies, we love foods. It’s quite imprecise. Now, Greek differentiates it into four words --  _ phileo _ ,  _ eros, storge, _ and  _ agape _ , which of course is  _ caritas _ in the Latin. The Japanese language has  _ koi _ and  _ ai  _ and  _ suki _ . I could really go on and on. There are all sorts of variations, all sorts of nuances that our language is simply inadequate to express.”

“So, um, what was it that destroyed The First, then?”

Mr. Giles smiled gently, removing his glasses. “It was love.” 

And he walked out of the room.

So there it is, Gentle Readers. An almost-one-hundred-percent true story of a Christmas Miracle. Are not the cockles of your cold, cold heart suffused with warmth? And are you not full to the brim with tingly, pepperminty Christmas Spirit? The world was saved, an ancient evil banished forever, because a vampyre and a slayer of vampyres came together in faith and hope and love. And the greatest of these is love. That’s right, this Christmas Miracle (tm) was brought to you by True Love. 

Also the cookies. Because I’m telling you, those biscotti were  _ perfect _ .

THE END

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Sigyn for betareading all the way to the end, and to my daughter for reading and encouraging me the whole way.
> 
> Author’s Notes: ON TIMING: Canon is coy about the exact timing of “Bring On the Night” vis-a-vis Christmas. Buffy and Giles go to a denuded tree lot and The First (as Drusilla) says “It’s almost Christmas Day today,” implying that Christmas is about to happen, but on that same day, Buffy is at work at the high school, so obviously Christmas break has not yet begun; the episode ends that evening. December 25 in 2002 was on a Wednesday. If the new Sunnydale High follows a typical school calendar, and assuming that was the last day of school before Winter Break, that would most likely place “Bring On the Night” on Dec 19 or 20. The timeline for the additional Potentials arriving in Showtime is vague, but we know Vi arrived “like the day after” BOtN and Eve arrived in town (to be killed and impersonated by The First) “day before yesterday.” A generous interpretation of this can squish the break between episodes down just enough that I can have Showtime happen the night of December 23. This also works well with the fact that Spike’s injuries from the opening of the Seal are still unhealed when he is rescued. (Also, seeing as Andrew was supposedly tied to a chair constantly until Showtime, I find a shorter timeframe way kinder, and more likely given how much unbathed teenage boys reek with just 24 hours sans deodorant - I speak from sad maternal experience here.) So while the January air date of Showtime implies that Spike is still in The First’s custody over Christmas, I feel totally justified in the scheduling of my Christmas fluff.
> 
> Yes, this is what I do for fun.
> 
> ON AMENDS/THE FIRST: So, one of my occasional complaints about Season 7 is that the motivations of the Big Bad are vague and unclear and nonsensical. This is also one of my complaints about “Amends.” (Not my only one, but that’s another story.) I wasn’t even going to have The First show up in this story, but halfway through writing Chapter 2 I started thinking about possible motivations for The First Evil, and the coincidence that The First’s two appearances also happened to include the only two Christmases in the series that Buffy was deep in love with a souled vampyre vampire (since season 1 starts post-Christmas and season 2 her relationship with Angel was far less developed) was just too juicy to ignore. (This is also why I missed my original goal of having this done by Epiphany; all of a sudden I was script-spelunking and researching things that weren’t originally going to be part of the story at all. Elephantiasis of the Fanfic: the suffering is real.)
> 
> OTHER: I also got them a new microwave sooner than in canon. You cannot convince me that a household with that many people under the age of 25 made it more than a month without buying a replacement microwave. Was it rescuing Spike sooner that changed canon? Or the new microwave? THE WORLD WILL NEVER KNOW.
> 
> Prompt (from myrabeth): I'd like a season seven Spuffy Christmas fic. By canon air dates, this falls during Spike's captivity, between Bring on the Night and Showtime. You can follow canon, showing us Buffy's Christmas without Spike, and how it impacts her. Or you can adjust the timing of those episodes to have them together, and go as off-canon as you like from there. The field is wide open. But here's the catch: the story must be written from the POV of either Andrew or one of the Potentials.


End file.
